


among the wreck

by averagefaces



Category: 2PM (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Future Fic, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 00:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averagefaces/pseuds/averagefaces
Summary: (Kinda sorta maybe hopefully not) Future fic AU: In which booze is on the loose, Junho might be hearing voices inside his head, and he does not require an intervention.Warning: this work of fiction contains mentions and descriptions of alcohol abuse, panic attacks, anxiety attacks and overall toxic behavior. Read with care.





	among the wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I've been revising this fic for what it feels like forever, oh god. While doing so I found some plot holes (2013-me wasn't the most consistent butterfly, I guess) that I tried to close one way or the other, and I probably didn't get to them all in time but, eh, it's the thought that counts. And it's no longer in lowercase! I call that character development, okay.
> 
> This story is really special to me; I hold it real close to my heart and although it was a whole experience to get it out, it's been an even greater experience to have it out there for people to read. I wanna thank every single person who's taken the time to take a look at it, whether they liked it or not, to everyone who held my hand back then when I wrote what has come to be my actual firstborn, lol, and to the people that left kudos and comments back in the first version of this, and the LJ post as well. Thank you, thank you, thank you, from the deepest corner of my very black soul.  
> —Gabi.
> 
> ==  
> Published October 2013, revised May 2019. This is a work of fiction, no harm intended to any parties involved. Please do not repost/copy or translate without permission; you're welcome to share this link. Thank you for reading!

At first, he doesn't know where to go.

He calls his mom and asks if she's okay with him crashing in for a few days ("Until I find a place that's, y'know, smaller or something," he tells her), but she's visiting some relatives outside the city. She says it's okay if he wants to tag along, though, ("I think it'd be lovely, dear, a getaway trip, considering the last few days—" Junho tunes her out and it _hurts_ to do it but thinking about the last few days hurts deeper) and even if he could use quiet and far-away right now, he doesn't go.

Mostly because he's itching and desperate to get a drink and he really doesn't want to do it in front of his mother. He reckons she wouldn't appreciate it, considering.

He sends Minhye a hasty e-mail, something that reads along the lines of "hey, I'm unemployed, I need your help, I'm coming your way," and buys a one way ticket to California before she replies, the only clothes in his bag (single, tiny, even for him) being a sweatshirt, four t-shirts, two pairs of jeans and jogging bottoms, and all the underwear he could fit next to them.

When he lands in San Francisco, Minhye is waiting for him outside the airport, and she looks both surprised and scared but she looks happy to see him, too, and that's what makes Junho's heart ache the most, never mind the events of the last seventy two hours.

"It's good to see you," he says as he drops his bag on the back-seat of her car. It's a rattled thing, grey painting chipped at the sides, and Junho has half a mind to ask her whether she's been in a car accident that he needs to know about but stops when he catches sight of her.

"One thing about my baby," she says in a very serious tone while patting the hood of the car, "and you're sleeping out in the hall, Lee Junho."

He smiles, holds both his hands up and says nothing else as he climbs on the passenger seat and buckles the belt. Soon they're out in the freeway, and they don't talk save for the "I hope you don't mind the couch for a few days, I have to ask Steph— that'd be my roommate— if she's gonna be back any time soon from her parents' and whether you can crash on her bed or not, though I'm sure she'll say yes anyway," and the "It's okay, I don't mind the couch, I really don't, stop worrying."

Junho stares out the window, at the foreign faces and the foreign buildings that greet him as they drive by and something settles low in his stomach, something achingly close to the beginnings of a panic attack. He can feel his fingertips itching and his heartbeat fastening.

It's real, _this is real,_  San Francisco around him and Minhye next to him, this is all _real_ and it fucking _hurts_ because there goes another thing in Junho's life ruined.

And the worst part, Junho thinks as he blinks quickly, is a few months back he wanted it over _so_ bad— _so bad—_  and now it's like he can't breathe with it, with the reality of it all. He digs his nails on his denim clad thighs, coaxes himself to breathe in, breathe out, do it again, _come on_ , and lowers the window so more air can whip at his face, but it's not enough, it never will, it feels like. He bites the inside of his lip to keep a steady point of focus but it's still there, the pain and the sadness and the frustration and the heartbreak that Junho honestly doesn't want to add into the equation but that still ends up on it anyway.

Twenty five minutes later Minhye is pulling over at the dorm building she's been assigned while working as an assistant teacher of sorts, but she makes no move to get out of the car once she's killed the engine. She stares at the steering wheel, Junho catching the way her fingers are still wrapped around it through the corner of his eye. It looks like she wants to say something but can't find the words for it and Junho hopes she doesn't because he can't have _that_ conversation right now, or any kind of conversation if he's honest with himself.

"It's good to have you here," she says at last, her voice only shaking slightly. Junho's never heard her stammer before, not even when they were being scolded by their mom after one too many pranks at school which usually started as Junho's ideas. He turns to look at her, hoping his eyes are not as wet as he feels them. "It really is, Junho," she continues, and turns to face him, her smile faint but still trapped at the corner of her mouth. "I'm glad you're here."

He nods, and the itching in his fingertips relents a little, his heart slowing to just barely above the normal rate. "I'm glad I'm here, too," he says after a lengthy pause in which all they've done is stare at each other, the noises from people bustling in and out of the building the only sound hanging between them.

Minhye smiles and squeezes his hand once before stepping off the car, and doesn't holler for Junho to hurry the fuck up, only leans against the side of the car and waits, waits, waits until Junho's shoulders aren't shaking anymore.

  
  


If Junho were ever asked to come up with something clever to compare his life to, he'd say a rollercoaster. And it wouldn't even be that clever, actually.

He's been up and he's been down, he's been on top and he's been at the bottom (in every sense of it, by the way), he's screamed and thrown his arms up in the air, loud and ringing in his ears and slapping across his face, cutting and unrelenting. He's been hanging up in the middle of nothing but air, he's clung to the little remains of sanity he's got left and felt the urge to both throw up and laugh it away until tears ran down his cheeks.

Junho's liked the bright lights high at the top, the large stages and the crowd— _god_ , the crowds screaming their name, _his_ name— waiting for him at the bottom, the attention and the flashes of one hundred different cameras aimed at him in between rides. And he's enjoyed the rush of music in his ears and the thumping bass in his heart so, _so_ much it's like nothing else could ever work the same, could work without it, and (here is probably where the metaphor sort of goes askew, though) it's a bit like being drunk off fine wine or maybe some slow-burning, old whiskey— the buzzing never ends, and Junho's not sure if he wants it to.

And the most hilarious part, really, is Junho's never really been into rollercoasters, but this— the scotch burning slow and sweet down his throat— this is something he's good at now, now that the cameras are gone and the only music he makes stays inside his head alongside buzzing and burning and numbness.

This is something easier than a rollercoaster ride, less troublesome, and Junho likes it, perhaps a bit too much and a bit too fiercely.

"Life is a roller coaster," Minhye says. (She does that sometimes— say stuff that makes Junho's skin crawl with pins and needles.)

Junho's dragging his suitcase along the flight of stairs to the third floor. It's empty, the whole staircase, and his sneakers squelch loudly over the polished stone— it makes him cringe, makes him want to take them off and just _sit_ there until he can't hear anything else.

"Even the puking at the end of the ride," she adds. "The wobbly legs, too— and the frenzied butterflies in the stomach. Crapping your pants is also a possibility."

"You've a very weird way of getting your points across," Junho says, and grimaces when his soles make another pitchy sound.

"You know I'm right." Minhye stops in front of a wooden door with a magazine cut of the London Eye lit in the middle of the night, lights tinting the Thames blue, red and yellow. There's something written at the bottom, _soooon!_ , in Minhye's awful, doctor-like handwriting.

Thinking about London makes Junho cringe again— his stomach tightening and his thumbs itching and his brain fuzzy with the wish for something musky and hot coiling at the back of his throat.

She taps the picture once and turns around to face Junho and his clenching stomach, smiles softly— like she'd rather not have to do it, and it's weird, seeing her so guarded like this, around him.

"That's the worst part, innit?" she says.

It is, but Junho doesn't tell her so.

 

-

 

He stays at Minhye's for about three weeks before finding himself a little apartment a few blocks from her building.

Steph-the-roommate is back from visiting her parents (in London— which explains a lot) three days into Junho's stay and even if she assures him he can still use her bed ("I think she has a crush on you," Minhye says over breakfast), at least until class is back on, Junho wholeheartedly refuses and sleeps on the couch (it's actually a nice couch, if you ask him) for a few nights.

He doesn't drink for as long as he's there because alcohol is not accepted in the building, and only goes out once with Minhye and her friends, who turn out to be a quite nice lot to hang out with and don't give him odd looks— that often. Some people _do_ recognize him, though, and Junho smiles politely at them, says stuff like, "yeah, no, I feel bad about it, too," and, "Of course I miss them, of course," and, "Thanks, that means a lot," while bitter bile gathers at the back of his tongue.

Minhye tries to get him out of the dorm on the next weekend but he shakes his head, "I can't do it, I just _can't_ ," and she hugs him, tight and protective and supportive and whispers "Okay, okay, you don't have to," into his hair. Junho doesn't cry this time, though, just sits at the couch he's been sleeping on for the past two weeks and _aches_ for the buzzing in his brain and the numbness in his limbs that makes everything else around him disappear.

When he decides on the apartment he's going to rent, Minhye helps him get settled on a Saturday and spends the whole morning trying to pick which color to paint the kitchen walls. Junho doesn't try to stop her, doesn't tell her this is probably just temporary because he's planning to get as far away as possible just as fast, and this is him sort of trying to spend quality time with her even if she's got tons of readings to go through and Junho spends all day on the couch watching _Friends._

"Blue? Seriously?" he frowns, looking at the pallet of colors on her laptop. "Isn't it a bit, I don't know, _blue_?"

"Well, we can paint them orange if you want. Or like, yellow, yellow is a happy color," Minhye says absently.

They decide on yellow and when they're done with it, Junho stares at his new and still bare kitchen and its yellows walls and resolutely tells himself this one's a shade darker than the one back home.

And then reminds himself that's not home anymore, it can't be.

 

-

 

When he starts living all by himself, it's easier to do as he pleases. He can overdose on burgers and greasy fries, he can get up late and regret nothing if he so much as brushes his teeth before crawling back into bed, and best of all, he can drink as much as he wants to.

It's not like he drinks a lot, though; he gets insomnia from time to time (his body is still not used to the whole time difference, even after almost a month and a half), and apparently the only sleep he can get is when he passes out after half a bottle of whatever's cheaper in the convenience store a few blocks down.

And he starts going out again, too— anything to get away from those horrible yellow walls, Junho tells himself. He goes out drinking at least twice a week, and that's how it starts, he assumes. First it's only a couple of nights, then it's maybe four nights in a row, if he's not too hangover the next day. Then comes the small talk he attempts with people sitting nearby, and even if his English has gotten better with time, he still feels awkward and out of his element every time he goes for small talk.

Eventually he decides small talk makes no difference. It starts harmless enough— just like every other thing in Junho's life— and soon it's not only nights spent in a hazy blur of alcohol, but also a blur of kisses and wandering hands and drunken blowjobs in the nearest bathroom. Junho's not a fan of the latter, never has been if he is to be honest, but at least it keeps his mind off things and his hands busy, and that's all that matters in the end.

When Minhye calls to check on him somewhere near the end of her semester, Junho is nursing a Saturday hangover but accepts her offer for lunch, and that’s how he ends up at a very bright, very cheerful diner with pastel colored walls that Junho hopes burns down with its cheerfulness along the side. But, like, without the people inside, that'd be just plain petty and Junho's above that.

"How've you been, then?" she asks, forking some spaghetti. "For a minute I have to remind myself you're actually _here_ , since I don't see you that often anymore."

Junho shrugs a shoulder, stomach queasy at the sight of his caesar salad. "I've been— Yeah, fine, mostly. Just, you know. Catching up on sleep and free time." He pokes a piece of lettuce absentmindedly, the knot in his stomach tightening with each lie he tells. "It's weird how much of it I have and how little I can think of doing with it."

"It's just a matter of time," she says softly, and he nods. She _knows_ , though, she's always just known— which is why her next words are not surprising at all and strike close to home: "I know you've never cared about what anyone says about you, Junho, but I think you should be careful."

He knows what she's talking about, he's seen the articles about him on Korean sites and some American ones, neither of which he can't be really bothered to keep up to date with. He's read about what people say and think about him now that everything's said and done, what they think happened to them all, conspiracy theories and points of view stating basically the same, _It was bound to happen, everything comes to an end—_  but Junho just _doesn't care._

He stopped caring _so long_ ago.

 

-

 

He learns that the more popular the club, the more fans he bumps into and that— that gets to a point in which it's just _too_ much to handle. He still smiles politely at them, though, hoping to all gods he's not reeking of stale beer because some of them are _teenagers_ for god's sake, and he signs on paper, sometimes shirts, and in one occasion, a shoulder, but that's it.

He gets tired of it, though, the recognition. And it must really say something about how low he's got because not only five months ago he still wanted the spotlight for himself.

Maybe he's finally gone crazy.

He starts finding dodgier ones, pubs and canteens with soft music playing at the back of every conversation and the smell of cheap cigarettes lingering in the air. Junho knows all the necessary English as well, "A drink, another one, leave the bottle, where can I call a cab". No one talks to him in these little pubs he visits, people have their own shit to deal with and are too busy to pull.

He goes home alone— that's the only way he knows how to, anyways. That's been _the only way._

He sits at the end of the bar— whatever's in front of him burning holes into his stomach, most likely— and only when he knows he's not going to remember any of it in the morning, he lets himself think of it, of them, of Chansung— fuck, _Chansung—_ Chansung with his warm eyes and his even warmer fingers and his chapped lips, and Junho aches, from the whiskey and from the cold and from the loneliness that sits heavy on his shoulders every fucking night and morning and breath in between.

(He also thinks of his dad, thinks of the first time he caught a whiff of beer when he got home one night and thinks, _Maybe it runs in the family, maybe this is what I was supposed to be doing all along._  But it can't be because Minhye despises drinking as much as Junho despises being sober nowadays and their mom only drinks at family gatherings and even those happen only thrice a year. _Maybe I'm the only fucked up one,_  he thinks, and it makes sense, _so much sense_ that it leaves him itchy everywhere and his glass empty and expectant.)

He doesn't even wince anymore as he knocks down the last remains of whiskey, and wills it to burn deeper, faster until he blacks out.

 

-

 

It takes three years and seven months for things to die down, if only a bit, but it's not like Junho keeps track or anything.

He manages to stay in New York for the better part of two years and only goes back to Seoul for his mom's birthday, and when he comes back, she comes along. She stays in the spare room Junho's got set up for Minhye whenever she visits, and it's— it's _nice_. They don't spend much time together when they're in Seoul anyways so this is a nice change: Junho gets to eat three home-cooked meals and his mom gets to _mom_ him a lot, so it's pretty much win-win.

Until the moment she cleans up the cabinets above the sink in Junho's kitchen and finds bottle after bottle of wine, vodka and everything in between, and the win-win feels heavy and sharp in Junho's bones. She says nothing about the bottles, only smiles at him when she's done cleaning and excuses herself to the bathroom to wash her hands.

Except Junho doesn't hear the tap running or her quiet humming of the Happy Birthday song, which she hums under her breath because she believes bacteria only die if you sing Happy Birthday twice.

Somewhere deep down he feels a lot like shit about this, because Junho _remembers_ her dutifully cleaning the kitchen in their old house and remembers empty bottles of alcohol lined up next to the fridge to be thrown out and remembers her, always quiet and with her eyes downcast and, _fuck_.

Fuck, Junho is _such_ a fucking bastard.

He slips into the kitchen quietly and stares at the bottles and thinks _fuck, fuck, I can't do this to her_ , and it _works_ , for the most part. Junho thinks he can do this, and so he _tries._

If not for him, then at least he has to do it for her— she deserves better than this, deserves so much better than Junho.

He locks all the bottles in the counter under the sink when she's off doing groceries and steps into the shower afterwards, the water cold and piercing over his skin. It doesn't make him feel better, though, makes his throat close up like he's about to choke and makes his eyes sting at the corners, his skin pulled tight over his chest and stomach and he doesn't know if it's the cold or just how badly he craves it, and Junho can't stand it, how much he _wants_ it.

  


 

When Minhye joins them in mid-September before she's off to Canada and her PhD program, she takes one look at him and then sits next to him on the bed until their mom kisses them both good night and leaves them alone. She sits there for a while, until the noises from the guest room grow quiet, and then she's back on her feet and out of the room, and only fifteen seconds later, she's back, a bottle of tequila in her hand and two glasses cupped against her stomach.

Trust Minhye to still remember how to pick locks. Junho never really mastered the art of the hairclip.

"Figured we'd need a nightcap," she says, and hands Junho one of the glasses.

"You're crazy," Junho tells her, and watches closely as she pours two fingers on each glass and knocks hers down without a wince. He raises his eyebrows. "Impressive."

"Must run in the family," Minhye states flatly, and pours for Junho.

When Junho swallows down, the burn of raw tequila makes his senses flare hot after one night too many of mostly water and Coke, and it's a bit like coming home after a long period of scratchy sheets in hotel rooms with broken heaters, and the thought makes Junho's throat close up, tight and strained, because his family is right there next to him, _right the fuck there_ , and yet Junho feels more at home with a glass under his fingertips and faint buzzing at the back of his mind.

It's disgusting, is what it is.

"I never liked tequila, though," she says after a moment of silence. "It was always so difficult to remove the stains from the couch. What d'you think makes it so impossible? Or was that the lemon? I can't remember, sometimes."

And Junho— well. Junho freezes. His fingers are white around his glass and his eyes are open wide and his mouth is probably hanging open, but the most pressing thought in his mind is, _breathe, breathe, do not stop breathing._  Junho wants to scream, wants to get up and punch some walls until his fists are nothing but sting and blood, but he's frozen on his side of the bed, Minhye cuddling close the only thing keeping him there.

It's like a dam breaks and Junho is back to being fourteen, when he could smell the alcohol all the way to his room. He's certain that, if he closes his eyes, he'll see it all again; his mom sitting at her side of the bed, her face downcast and ashen, and Minhye too, pretending to study when she actually had the same blank page open for as long as their dad stayed up.

Junho doesn't really want to close his eyes. Ever again, if possible. So he stills, his back aching and squared against the headboard he's leaning on, and if Minhye finds it weird, she says nothing, just drops her head on Junho's shoulder, her cheek warm against his collarbone.

He kind of admires her for it— for talking about their childhood so openly when Junho still struggles every night with how much he wants to forget all about it. People cope differently, he read once, and it must hold some truth to it. Besides, she's the family shrink, she probably does it all very professionally whereas Junho is shit about it and a total disgrace.

"You're not like him, you know," she says after a while. She takes his hand, squeezing gently. "You're nothing like him."

He falls asleep wishing he could believe her.

  
  


And then, when he wakes up one morning and they're both gone, Junho drags his feet over to the kitchen, grabs the bottle of tequila Minhye had put back before leaving for the airport, and crawls back into bed, the alcohol growing warm where the blankets aren't anymore.

 

-

 

Truth is, Junho only thinks of them when he's absolutely shit-faces. It's _easier_ that way, can blame it all on his inebriation and regret nothing later— that is, if he can remember about it in the morning. Which works fine as well because the less he remembers, the better.

But there are times— moments like this one, for example— when he's watching bad TV and completely sober, that he lets his mind drift back to the memories he's been desperately trying to drink away for the past four years.

What he remembers the most is the time they spent being lazy, the few days they used to get for themselves before they were swallowed up by cameras and microphones and foundation. It's weird; one'd say what he'd remember the most was the thrill of performing and the lights and the stage and the screams, but that's actually what he can't focus on anymore.

He remembers one time in June, almost before Nichkhun's birthday, when they all decided to sneak out of their dorm and climb up to the roof just to play with water balloons. It was childish and stupid and it'd been one of Taecyeon's crazy ideas but it had sounded just _so_ right and perfect at the moment.

It was a chilly night (and Junho remembers this mostly because Wooyoung caught the cold of his life and spent the rest of the week being a bitch to everyone) and none of them had thought about having to sneak back in with their clothes hanging wet around them and squirting water everywhere. They'd left the staircase a mess because Minjun couldn't keep himself from jumping up and down and flapping his arms around hoping to smack someone with a wet sound. The hall had been another different story and Minjae had tripped twice trying to open the door and once while trying to slip off his shoes.

It had been great, though— the loud laughter echoing around splashes of water and one or two screeches from Nichkhun. Junho remembers clinging to Chansung and using him as a shield as he threw his last two balloons at Wooyoung, remembers Chansung's blinding grin and wet fringe and gentle, gentle hands around his wrists and something squirms in his chest, something he hasn't dealt with since long ago, and it's like a punch to the gut, makes Junho's breath stutter and his stomach drop and drop and drop until all that's left is just echoing emptiness and the feeling like he's lost something, something important and precious and _close_.

Junho wonders if there'll ever be a day when he can think of them— of Chansung— without feeling nausea clawing its way up his throat, sober or not.

 

-

 

When he calls Minhye for her birthday, they share the usual greetings and whereabouts questions and Junho is painfully sober while this happens. He asks about college and their mom since she'd been staying with Minhye for a few weeks, about her boyfriend (he only feels like getting a drink when she mentions something about "dinner with his parents". Junho is not the jealous brother type, but Minhye's been brokenhearted twice by now and Junho's allowed to feel awry, thank you very much) but other than that it goes as smooth as phone calls go between them.

"So mom called a few days ago," she says after she's done talking about one of her classes. "Apparently dad's not been well."

"Oh," Junho says in a small voice, fingers fumbling with the rag he'd been using to clean is kitchen counter and jaw tense. He drops it on the sink and moves, almost on autopilot, to the living room. His one couch is fluffy and it always seems to swallow Junho down, making his muscles loose and relaxed, but now he sits upright, tight as a string just waiting for the final push until it snaps. "What is it? I mean, is he okay?"

"I think he is, otherwise we'd know by now," she says softly, and Junho nods although she can't see it, heart pounding. "Have you talked to him lately?"

Junho sighs loudly. "It's been like, two years? Probably longer than that, dunno."

"Junho," she says sternly.

"That's my name, yes," Junho says smartly, and she doesn't say anything else on the matter. He asks, quite hastily, "What else has mom told you? How are things in Seoul anyway?" and he almost wants to take his words back because he _really_ doesn't want to know how things are in Seoul— especially if Minhye knows about _things_ in _Seoul_ referring to _them_ and fuck, Junho really needs to work on his brain-to-mouth filter.

Or maybe he just needs a drink. (Junho senses a pattern here, and that just makes him feel even more morose.)

Minhye is practically shrugging through the line. "She hasn't told me much, but she met up with Wooyoung's mom a couple of days ago—"

And that's how Junho learns that Nichkhun is back in bangkok and that, besides Minjun, everyone else has scattered around the world after their military service (which Junho was rather lucky and avoided since he got into a nasty car accident when he was supposed to go back and enlist). Wooyoung's been in Sidney for the past year, Taecyeon is somewhere in Canada but hasn't ran into Minhye ("Yet," she says darkly, "but I'm about to track him down"), and Chansung, well—

("But," Junho starts, his brow furrowed and his hands swatting Chansung out of the way because he can't see the damn subtitles, "Why London? there's nothing special about London. Why would London be your favorite city in the world, have you even _been_ to London before—"

"Hey, now, don't hate on me because London is better than New York— pass the popcorn, would you— and no, I haven't, but I will."

Junho throws a kernel at him, smiling. "Dream high, huh?"

Chansung twines his fingers with Junho's, his eyes still on the screen where Benedict Cumberbatch jumps off the ledge of a building, "Come with me one day? To London?"

And Junho nods before Chansung's done asking—)

Chansung is in London.

And Junho— Junho's been drinking himself into oblivion in New York for the past two years.

How fucking poetic.

So that's exactly what he keeps doing.

He gets shit-faced all by himself in his flat, cheek pressed to the cold marble of the breakfast bar. He feels empty and dirty, feels years and years catching up to him and pulling him to the ground, and it's awful, the way his throat closes with unshed tears that he'd really thought himself over. The thought of them spending time in the military makes Junho's gut clench because _what if_ s start jumping up left and right and Junho can't stand it, can't stand the thought of one of them possibly being hurt while he's been across the globe doing fucking _nothing_ but being the worst kind of son and brother and friend.

He thinks of Nichkhun, Nichkhun who must have probably felt the way he's feeling now (minus the alcohol), Nichkhun who was always _there_ when no one really asked him or expected him to be. And it's a bit hilarious, really; back then, back when things weren't fucked up and Junho could _breathe_ past the lump in his throat, Nichkhun used to be his wingman when it came to night-outs. He thinks it'd be great to hear him, talk to him, or just—

But he doesn't have Nichkhun's number anymore, he has no one's number and it makes his head hurt even worse when the realization hits him. Junho's so drunk he can barely make out the tiny letters on his phone's screen, and it takes him two and a half hours to open the email application and another forty five minutes to scroll through the ten emails that make his contacts' list.

Junho doesn't even stop to consider the email he has might not be active anymore— Junho doesn't stop, can't stop, it's been ingrained into his brain ever since the first time he set foot on stage, and how fucking poetic did it turn out to be, really, Junho is so done with the universe— but he hits send before he blacks out right there on his kitchen's floor or before he can overthink his decision for too long.

 

_I hoepe yoiuu all arrre hsdppy_ _j_

_jhho_

 

And the next morning, when his phone beeps, is to find two texts, thirteen missed calls, and one email.

 

 _From: Minhye-noona – Today at 06:09  
_ _Nichkhun just called me saying you're drunk-mailing? Lee Junho I did not leave you in New York all by yourself so you could get smashed while I'm away in Vancouver trying to get a doctorate. Also, he messed with my beauty sleep. I'm pissed, Lee Junho, pissed._

 

 _From: Unknown Number – Today at 04:15  
_ _hey so idk if i'm supposed to be worrying over you possibly choking on your own vomit but i am anyways. i'm in d.c. right now. call me? it's cheaper than calling all the way to bangkok. oh wait- the internet! give me a call. x nk=]_

 

_13 missed calls from Unknown Number - Save in Contacts List?_

 

  
_From: n.lukjevroh@outlook.kr  
_ _Subject: Re: No subject_

_I see you were right when you said there was nothing left to corrupt, young one._

_(I don't know if we are, to be honest. And that includes you.)_

_NK_

 

-

 

When Junho goes out drinking on New Year's Eve, he forgets to take his phone with him. This is _very bad_ because without his phone he can't call for a cab and without a cab he can't make it back to his place and that's really a turn of events Junho doesn't want to deal with.

He ends up inside an expensive bar near Times Square, buys a glass of disgustingly overpriced wine, and is out of there before the bartender can offer a refill. Junho leaves the bar and wraps his coat tighter around himself, his fingers numb since he hasn't any gloves on him either, and starts making his way home slowly, the streets already packed and loud as all hell.

He'd made the conscious effort last year to make it to Times Square by midnight and live the full experience but he'd passed out somewhere around nine pm, the rum making his stomach churn the next morning, and he hadn't even remembered about it until he'd seen reviews on TV a few days later.

Now, though, he stands in a crowded corner, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as snow covers the icy streets, streets with people laughing and smiling and holding hands and kissing, what the fuck, is it New Year's or fucking Valentine's, and it's too much; Junho can't breathe past it, past another year gone this way.

He wonders why is it he complains so much about his life when he can't even bring himself to do the most goddamn basic thing for it to change.

(He's fucked-up, that's why.)

He thinks of his dad again, who he hasn't talked to in about three years, and wonders if he's as screwed as Junho is. He turns on his feet, his skin itching to get off his heavy coat, and makes it back to his usual pub almost an hour later even if it's only across Madison Square. The streets get even more crowded, and by the time he sits down at the bar, it's already eleven minus twenty.

The drink in front of him is something oddly tasting like whiskey but not woody or strong enough. He keeps it coming until Junho can no longer tell the difference, until the burn is the same as always and the numbness starts on his fingertips and spreads towards his chest.

He doesn't ask the bartender (Junho thinks his name is Charlie but it could be Carly, really, New York is so different from everything he's known) for the check anymore, just tips his head in a nod and hops off his stool, Charlie-or-Carly calling, "Right, on your tab, Junho boy, Happy New Year!" above the rustling sound of customers voicing their orders and the speakers blaring off about New Year's resolutions and, "Only twenty more minutes to go, guys!"

He makes it back to his place and uncorks a bottle of champagne before he's even out of his coat, aware of how nasty his hangover is when he mixes drinks but caring very little about it. His phone chirps loudly from the center table when he drags his feet over to the couch, and it's a missed call from Nichkhun, and something at the back of his throat tastes heady and sour.

Junho stares at the screen for about ten minutes before pressing _Call_. It rings four times before Nichkhun picks up with a loud, "Oh my _god_ , you're alive."

"And kicking," Junho says, smiling weakly. "How are you?"

"M'great," Nichkhun says, slurring a bit, and Junho is half glad because he's not so sober either. There's music on Nichkhun's end, something that sounds like a Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears mash-up. "Hanging out with my brother for a couple of days. He's bought a place here and I'm crashing till the end of the week."

"Never pegged you as the crasher type," Junho says.

"There's a lot about me you still don't know, young one," Nichkhun laughs.

"You're aware you're only like, a year and a half older than me, right?" Junho raises both eyebrows, taking a long sip off his glass.

"Don't rain on my parade, Lee Junho," Nichkhun chides. "How's New York, anyway?"

"It's— Yeah, it's good. Nice. Cold." Junho slides his finger along the rim of his glass and adds, "Bit like Seoul, sometimes. More traffic, though."

Nichkhun hums at the other end of the line, low and quiet. "Hey, I've been thinking, Maybe we could catch up soon? Like, we could get a drink or two. If you're not busy? I mean, we don't have to if you don't wanna, it'd be, y'know, nice. To see you again."

Junho nods although Nichkhun can't see it. "No, yeah— Sure. Yeah, that'd be nice. Call me when you're in town?"

"I will," Nichkhun says quietly, "I promise. Happy New Year, Junho."

"You too, hyung."

 

-

 

When Nichkhun calls about a week later, Junho's too drunk to answer. It's bad, a small part of his brain whispers, _very bad_ , because he'd been expecting it (and dreading it at the same time— which Junho is allowed to do, thanks) but it's just. It's complicated. It's been so fucking long— Junho needs his wits about him, meaning he needs to be sober for this.

He lets it go to voicemail while he drops face first on top of his bed and tries not to puke on his pillows.

  
  


By the time he comes around, his hangover is murderous and he blinks blearily at his phone before typing a reply and hoping it makes sense. (And it does make sense, Junho even makes sure the autocorrect doesn't change anything— it's happened before.)

 _To: Nichkhun – Today at 14:06  
_ _Call you back when sober enough._

He strips off his two-days-old clothes and steps into the shower, the water warm and soothing over his aching muscles, and he stays under the spray until it starts turning a bit cold and his fingertips are wrinkled. He dries himself off with a fluffy towel (the last one, actually, which reminds him he needs to get his ass on doing the laundry sometime soon) and pulls on a ratty t-shirt and old pants. His phone beeps again when he's trying to dry his hair off but he ignores it and drops the towel on the hamper inside the closet, dragging his feet towards the bed to flop on top of it without so much as a sigh.

The message on his phone is from Minhye and he types a hasty reply for her, his eyelids heavy and his muscles soft and aching for warmth and sleep, "I'm okay, alive and showered," and blacks out again after he's hit send.

  
  


He wakes up eight hours later to its insistent ringing, the phone still tucked inside his hand. There are eleven missed calls and six texts when Junho blinks blearily at it.

 

_11 missed calls from Nichkhun_

 

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 09:10  
_ _too late for that, i'm afraid._

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 09:15  
_ _and i don't mean that in the judgmental way. i mean that as in 'please open up before my balls freeze to death'._

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 09:21  
_ _junho i'm serious it's cold outside_

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 09:28  
_ _come onnnnn i know you're in there one of your neighbors says you haven't been out in days and he's creepy and won't stop staring_

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 09:45  
_ _okay i'm really starting to panic you giant assbutt_

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 10:07  
_ _i'm gonna wait at the starbucks two blocks down until you answer and if i freeze to death it'll be all on you, lee-small-eyes-junho_

  
  


Nichkhun looks good. He looks well rested and warm under his beanie and his heavy coat. His eyes are the same they've always been, brown and deep and _knowing_ and Junho wants to ask how much he knows now, how much about Junho and how much about the others. He doesn't, though, because just having Nichkhun right in front of him makes his head hurt with all the memories that float back to the surface and Junho can only take those one at a time. And in between drinks, most preferably.

Nichkhun smiles at him as he toes off his shoes, and he has a couple of paper bags held precariously within the circle of his arms. Junho hears the dingle of wine bottles knocking against each other when he hugs Nichkhun one-armed. It's an awkward hug, Junho doesn't know if he should lean into it or if he should keep it brief, and his fogged-and-still-hangover brain isn't helping much.

They pull apart six seconds later. Junho counts them.

"I figured you'd want to stay in, so I got us drinks and food, I hope that's alright?" Nichkhun asks as Junho walks him further into the flat, slipping his grey scarf off, snow flying everywhere and making the carpet wet. He falters, though. "I mean— I can come back another day if—"

Junho shakes his head, waving a hand towards the couch for Nichkhun to sit. "No, it's cool, really, I just— It's okay, I promise. Please, sit."

Nichkhun nods as he sits down, and Junho heads to the kitchen. It's a good thing he did the dishes before he dragged himself into the shower. He grabs a couple of glasses, a bowl and a couple of plates from the drying rack, and goes back to the living, where Nichkhun sits with his hands on his thighs and his eyes wide. Junho tries not to feel too self-conscious about the mess of newspapers on the love-seat and part of his laundry flopping sideways on top of a chair.

Junho looks up from one of the _I heart LA_ shirts Minhye brought for him just as Nichkhun uncorks a bottle with a nicely timed keychain.

"Got this in Prague," Nichkhun says, waving the keychain around. It looks a bit like a dick.

"Guess you're every party's hero," Junho whistles as he sits down, and smiles. It's a reflex, really, smiling to Nichkhun. Everyone smiles at Nichkhun, Junho's never met anyone who's managed to keep a straight face when he was around. Besides, Junho hasn't seen him in a while and— and he's happy, maybe.

Weird feeling, that one. He hasn't been at least a little bit happy in, like. A long while.

Nichkhun clears his throat, and Junho's stomach does this thing where it leaps and crashes. He hands over one of the glasses to Nichkhun while leaving the plates on the coffee table.

"Hey, your English's gotten better," Nichkhun points out as he pours himself a glass and hands the bottle over to Junho, who pours himself half the bottle in one go.

Why beat around the bushes, right?

"Yeah," he says, sitting back against the couch. His smile turns rueful and he kind of hates himself a bit for it. "That's the only thing that did, actually."

And they drink. They don't talk about how they've been doing, they don't even talk at all, and the only sound is the one from the TV perched on the wall and the weird soap opera that runs from 6 to 7 (that Junho has never figured the plot of— he's tried) and the sounds they make when they grab plates and sticks to have some of the takeaway Nichkhun brought with himself.

They drink both of Nichkhun's bottles and then Junho pulls out two more from the cabinet above the sink and if Nichkhun finds it strange, he doesn't comment on it. Junho pours himself glass after glass, staring off into space and wondering where the heck did he take the wrong turn because he certainly didn't expect himself to drink his mid-twenties away like this but—

But this is the only way he knows now. This is the only thing he's good at now, the alcohol— now it's not so much about keeping the voices at bay because he left them in Jinyoung's conference room four years ago— and he knows he can't fuck this up, not more anyways, unless he decides to set the booze on fire and Junho hates the smell of smoke too much to even consider it.

Besides, the numbness is so familiar he doesn't know how he's gone through half his life without it and how to spend the next half (if he makes it that far) without it either.

Nichkhun stops pouring for himself somewhere in the middle of the fourth bottle being uncorked, but he still helps Junho with bottle number seven when his fingers feel unresponsive and shaky for no particular reason Junho can figure out. Nichkhun asks him somewhere in between bottle number nine (where the fuck does he keep that many bottles, anyways) and ten if he's okay and Junho nods shakily, says something like "Yeah, m'okay, don't worry," but his tongue feels heavy and like he just licked sandpaper.

It's not a surprise but more like a different kind of familiarity when his mouth dries and his vision blurs.

It happens fast, too, everything going black and mute around him except for the panic in Nichkhun's voice as he swears and the warmth of his hands on Junho's neck. It feels so, _so_ fucking familiar— because this has happened before, Nichkhun's always been his wingman— Junho just gives in into it, his eyes dropping and his limbs sagging against the couch as everything around him turns into darkness.

 

-

 

"Can you make it?" his dad asks over the phone.

Junho hates tuesdays because he's supposed to talk to his dad on tuesdays. It's not like he hates him, though, or at least he hopes not. Hate is such a strong word and his mom is always on about how hating someone doesn't make you better than them, but still, he might not be far from there.

Truth is, though, Junho misses him. Misses his warm silences when they were having dinner and the smell of his aftershave before Junho had to use the bathroom to get dressed for school. But mostly he misses the idea of _home_ his dad took with him when he walked out the door, drunken and unshaved and destroyed, taking Junho's whole life with him as he did.

That's what Junho misses the most (because he certainly doesn't miss the quiet fights he tried his hardest to ignore, or even the muffled sobs of his mom in the bathroom when his dad spent the night out who knows where and came home the next morning reeking of beer and cheap perfume. He doesn't miss the glasses lined up on the center table and his sister picking them up, washing them and storing them back in every morning before they had to leave for school).

"I don't know," he breathes, slow and unsure, sixteen years old. He clutches the phone tight in his fist.

His other fist is bunched around the thigh of his school uniform, the fabric raspy and tick to the touch. Junho stares at it unblinkingly, until his eyes itch and sting.

"You better make it," his dad says, his voice hard and unrelenting and it's like Junho can smell it through the phone, the stench of vodka or whatever he's been downing now. "You better make it, Junho. You can't waste time on something you won't succeed at in the long run—"

Junho tunes him out. Instead, he focuses on the sound of the rain on the sidewalk outside their house, the sound of the trees shaking with the wind and, if he strains enough, he can hear an ambulance in the distance. He tells himself to breathe in and breathe out, to do it until the call's over because it never lasts too long anyways, since he has to work on school work and his dad knows that.

He says something else, something about school grades dropping, but Junho ignores that too, rather for his dad's than his own sake.

When the call is over, he sits back against the couch and looks around, his eyes unblinking. He sets his jaw, his fingers digging on his palms, repeating _you won't cry, you won't cry_ over and over under his breath. Maybe, if he says it long enough, he'll make it all stop.

"I'll show you," he whispers, rubbing furiously at his cheeks.

 

 

 

(In retrospect, Junho supposes this is where everything went to shit. And then it just kept getting worse.)

  


 

"Is he here?" he asks Minhye.

She shrugs a shoulder, her smile warm as she pats his arm. "He's not important," she says. "You don't have to prove yourself to him, Junho."

"I'm gonna leave, too," he says. "If I make it I have to leave you." He sounds scared and something in Minhye's face breaks.

She shakes her head. "You're nothing like him, Junho." She holds him at arm's length, staring into his eyes. She's tall by a head now, and her fringe makes her glare look even deeper. She's started to use make-up, too, and her lashes look impossibly long and thick. "Do you hear me?" she shakes him slightly, or maybe Junho's the one shaking; it's hard to tell. He nods. "You're nothing like him."

And Junho tries really hard to believe her, nods as he makes it through all the rounds and lets his mom hug him tight enough to make his ribs ache more than they already do. It's all rushing past before his eyes and his ears, his senses off with everything around him, lights and music and faces and Junho dances, he sings, too, and he doesn't stop for a moment to breathe until he's through. And when they say he's good, he's got it, he's in, he can't help but think about it again, because he _is_ going to leave them.

He's going to put his dreams first and that— that feels wrong as much as it feels right and Junho doesn't know what to do with it.

Minhye's eyes are proud and her cheeks are wet when she hugs him sideways, ruffling his hair like she always does and he always hates. Junho wraps his arms around her, buries his face in her shoulder and breathes in lilies and home.

"Not like him," he whispers, and she nods, tucks her chin in the crook of his shoulder while their mom wraps them in her arms.

Except a part of him thinks, _I'm not. But I could_.

  
  


(Junho doesn't _get_ it. He's seventeen and he doesn't get it. Doesn't get how someone can turn their back on their family this way. He doesn't get what makes it so appealing, the drinking, the smoking, the burning throat and the hazy vision. Doesn't get how someone seemingly sane enough can call bullshit at the top of their lungs, can say hurtful things to those they love and love them back.

And then, one day, when he grows up, he does. Doesn't make it less painful, though.)

  
  


The thing is he's scared. The lights are bright and suffocating and they make Junho blink a lot, which is _not cool_ because they're trying to take pictures of him, and he needs to keep his eyes open, god damn it, and he's pretty sure he just spoiled the make-up with one of his sleeves.

"It's okay," one of the photographers says, smiling warmly at him. "I know it's a bit scary, but we'll be over soon."

Junho nods, fidgeting with his long sleeves as he tries for a smile, but he's been smiling non-stop for the past forty-five minutes and now his cheeks are cramped. The photographer (his name might be Yoojin) chuckles and ushers him back in front of the camera, saying, "I only need three more shots and then you're free to go."

So Junho steels himself, tries for another smile and prays to all heavens it doesn't look like the grimace he thinks he's pulling and, before he knows it, Yoojin (it's definitely Yoojin) is patting his shoulder, sending him off before calling in the next contestant.

And that's when he meets Chansung.

Chansung with his huge eyes and lanky frame and his long arms and thick legs and goofy smile. Junho likes him instantly because they're both scared shitless, scared of what they've been doing so far and scared of wanting it, and for a while they just stand there while a kid named Doojoon gets photographed, arms touching just barely as flash after flash brightens up the room. They cringe together every time the _snap_ echoes around them and it's sick, twisted even, but Junho's never felt closer to anyone like this before.

"I almost shitted my pants when they snapped the first picture," Chansung says out of nowhere.

It makes Junho laugh, laugh so hard it aches at his sides and presses down on his stomach and brings tears to the corners of his eyes, and he's doubling over, leaning heavily on his knees. Chansung is right next to him, laughing like he's not laughing at himself— which he isn't, which _they aren't—_ his lips stretched so wide in a grin that Junho almost asks him to drop it before his face breaks.

Chansung's face doesn't break, not really, but something around them does and yet—

("You're gonna break my heart one day, aren't you?" Chansung whispers, his cheeks still rosy pink from the drinks Junsu had shared with them over dinner. He shifts around in the bunk bed, Junho's bunk bed, until his forehead is pressed to Junho's shoulder, and Junho should push him away, tell him to get back to his own bed, _they've just met_ , but he can't, is frozen in place, because Chansung's words are hanging between them, a steady weight at the back of his neck)

—they're still far too young (and scared— always scared) to know.

  
  


At first Junho doesn't want to share it. He wants it all for himself, wants to be the only one on stage and wants to be the only one in the fans' hearts. It's normal, one of the counselors tells him. No one works so hard on something they're going to have to share, and something like this— this big and surreal— it's meant to feel this way. Junho shouldn't worry. It'll wear off when he gets the hang of it, when he realizes how fun it'll get to be because he's going to do it with his _friends_.

But Junho doesn't want to do it with his friends. This is not what he came to do. He came to shine and he came alone (well, with his mom and sister, if you get technical) and solo is wants he wants, really _wants._

On debut day, he throws up three times before they're due on stage, nervous and anxious and completely lost. (He's not the only one, though, as much as Jaebum tries to act all tough Junho's heard his sniffles in the bathroom, and Junsu's leg won't stop shaking where he's sitting next to Wooyoung, who looks about to cry.) He calls Minhye because she _knows_ , she gets it more than anyone else and she's the only person Junho feels safe enough to share it with (never mind she's his older sister and older sisters are annoying and untrustworthy on principle).

"I don't want it," he mumbles into the phone, hugging his knees close to his chest where he's sitting next to white porcelain, "not like this." His costume digs painfully in some places but he tries not to think of the pain too much, focuses instead on his breathing, in and out, in and out until Minhye speaks up again.

She sighs quietly against the phone and Junho can almost see her rolling her eyes at the back of his, her brow scrunched up. "But they're your friends now, Junho, what a better way to share it with—"

"Don't even start, Minhye," he says, his voice more desperate than he means to.

"You're gonna be great," she says. She sounds so sure it scares Junho more than it reassures him. "You're gonna be great and I'll tell you _I told you so_ over and over again until your ears fall off."

"You're such a twat," he whines, high-pitched and breezy. (Of course he completely denies this later.)

"As a matter of fact, I am," she laughs. "Now go on and make us proud, mom has gathered all her friends in the living room just to show you off."

"She better not start setting me up," Junho says quietly.

"You're too young to date, Lee Junho," Minhye says, but it sounds teasing. "Now stop worrying, yeah? Just because you have to share it, doesn't mean it's any less _yours_."

  
  


Junho gets mad when Jaebum leaves. He gets pissed off his ass because Jaebum is so full of shit, cowering away like that. Junho tells him that over the phone, says something like "Don't be such a fucking coward," and "Why do you have to leave us," but Jaebum doesn't answer.

Junho hates him, hates how composed he sounds even when he says "I'm sorry, Junho" and hangs up, because he's _not_ sorry, how _could_ he. Jaebum's going to make it, he's going to be Jay and he's going to make it all on his own, he's going to have a spotlight for himself, and Junho _hates_ him for it.

(Later, Junho will realize the hate was misplaced, because for all Jay made it out there all on his own, he still was the second person to leave Junho behind and take a family away from him.)

  
  


When the high wears off and the screams are no longer scary, Junho learns to enjoy it. He learns to enjoy the shared pain and burdens and fears. Learns all about having to share something so precious, learns to love the attention they get. And maybe, slightly maybe, he might even grow a bit fond of them— all of them.

For a while Junho forgets about his deepest secret, tucks it into the furthest corner of his mind and ignores its screaming until he can't hear it anymore and the only sounds he can focus on are Chansung's laughter and Wooyoung's whiny voice and Nichkhun's quiet Korean lessons everyone helps with at nights.

And when Jaebum leaves to become Jay, and shortly after Jieun says it's not him, it's her, she can't do this anymore, she's so sorry things didn't work out between them, Junho learns about leaving and staying, too.

He learns not everyone stays, not everyone is _meant_ to. He thinks of his dad, of what he might be doing now, of the fake smiles he has to literally sew across his face whenever they see each other, thinks of how little they share, and thinks— thinks _it's not fucking fair_.

That's what he tells himself when he meets Jiyeon and her pretty smiles and soft curves. That's what he tells himself when he walks out of Soojin's flat without looking back, and then leaves Jaehyun in the practice studio with his fly undone and his dick still out.

Eventually he doesn't even have to remind himself of it, he just _leaves_. And it's easy to do it, so fucking easy to just up and leave and not look back.

(Yet the most frustrating part, Junho admits, is no one asks him to stay.)

  
  


It starts harmless enough, Junho thinks. It's just an interview, meant to tease their fans because they know how much they like stuff like this and it's good, extra publicity, and where's the harm in that, really.

"If you were a girl, which of the members would you date?" the interviewer asks, her bright red lipstick making his gut clench, and Junho wants to make a face at her, say he'd rather not picture himself as a girl, thank you very much, but he's on national TV and he has to answer.

He says Chansung's name because— because—

It doesn't matter why, actually, the audience breaks into a scream and the set chuckles and Chansung grins like it's fucking christmas. So Junho just nods, shrugs at Wooyoung when he turns to look at him with raised eyebrows and just smiles like he has a dirty, little secret.

Which he doesn't. Which _they_ _don't_.

No one asks why, no one stops and makes Junho elaborate, but then it's Chansung's turn, and when he's asked who would he date and he calls Junho's name, the screams are louder and the set giggles maniacally and Junho's gut clenches even more.

The interviewer asks why. Chansung shrugs, "He's just— he's my type."

It doesn't make it to broadcast—  

("I don't think the audience will like that," the PD says, and he's shaking his head at Chansung.

"I improvised," Chansung defends himself, his jaw set and his shoulders tense and Junho wants nothing else than to pull him into his arms and hug him tight until he's squeezed the frustration out of him. "You didn't give me a script, and I was just doing my job."

"The whole thing was unscripted," Wooyoung jumps in, his body half covering Chansung from the PD. Minjae raises his eyebrows but Wooyoung doesn't budge. "Why the heck did you even let her ask that?"

Minjae goes about rating charts and stuff Junho doesn't really register because the only thing he can focus on are Chansung's eyes boring into his, his whole face a mask on top of the fear and panic and hope trying to break past his eyes)

—but it makes it to Junho's memory, imprints itself into the back of his eyes, and later when they're in the van driving around Seoul to find another studio, Chansung leans heavily against his side, his hair tickling Junho's bare shoulder as he drops his head there.

"You're really my type, you know," he says, slow, quiet, like he's breathing a secret no one else but Junho is supposed to catch.

Junho looks around expecting to find wondering stares and maybe a few teasing comments but there are none, everyone is asleep or pretending to be and Junho has more pressing thoughts at hand. He tilts his face to find Chansung staring at his hands, both clasped tightly in between their thighs, his knuckles almost white and—

Something breaks again when Junho quietly slips his fingers in between Chansung's, "I am?"

Junho can feel the tug of Chansung's lips curling into a smile against his arm, his fingers slotting into Junho's like a puzzle, its pieces soft and warm around the edges.

"You are," Chansung says. "I promise."

Junho should ask what _exactly_ is Chansung promising here but he's too worried trying to breathe past the lump in his throat and the clench of his tummy and the alarms going _go out, get out, run before it's too late_ at the back of his mind.

  
  


When they hold their first concert, it's a bit surreal. Junho blinks back tears because he still has one more song to do and just when he's walking down the stage and losing himself in it, the people and the screams, it _happens_.

He's just there, waving his hand around at the fans and it's the fact that he's standing all by himself at this side of the stage that does it. He thinks _What if I were here all by myself instead of being with them_ and that's all it takes, that's _all it takes_ for the picture around him to snap. He freezes in the middle of a wave, stares hard at the crowd and wonders if he'd get so many people together just to see _him_.

Chansung comes up behind him, slinging an arm around his shoulders, and as much as Junho wants to push him away—

("I want you leave me the fuck alone," Junho says, his voice thick with the weight of one lie and a secret too many, and it's fucked up, they both are, and they both know it.

Chansung takes a deep breath, his jaw clenched tight, and Junho wants, wants, wants),

he doesn't.

Later Chansung drops a messy kiss on his mouth, his fingers tight around Junho's wrist, and that's the only point of contact between them besides their mouths. Chansung's lips are unsure but insistent and Junho wants it, wants it so bad it's like his heart is going to break with it, and he kisses back perhaps a bit too fiercely and too enthusiastically, his teeth knocking against Chansung's and their noses bumping when they press even closer to murmur a muffled apology.

It's over soon enough— too soon, _god_ , always too soon— and then Chansung's grinning, mad and white and impossibly warm and Junho's thoughts relent for a while, the voices quiet long enough for Junho to thank the staff and slip into more comfortable clothes, Chansung by his side, always by his side.

The dam doesn't close, though, and Junho welcomes Chansung into his room that night because they're still tipsy from adrenaline and cheap champagne from the after-party, and because he knows there's a possibility he'll stop hearing _what if_ s if Chansung pushes in deep enough—

Which he does, and Junho focuses on that instead: on the press of Chansung's fingers when they clutch at his hips, or the way the tip of his cock brushes up _just right_ against Chansung's belly when he leans up to bite on the crook of Chansung's neck and shoulder, a whimper dying at the back of his throat, and for a moment Junho lets it all go and forgets.

(But the next day Chansung is still warm on his skin and that's the only thing Junho doesn't let himself forget about.)

  
  


They're not, like, good friends, Wooyoung and him. Yeah, they share the dorm— they all do— and they spend time together and they're band-mates and whatever, but still, it doesn't make them _friends_ , not as deep Junho thinks a friendship _should_ be.

(He's so wrong, though. _So_ wrong.)

They become close, closer than Junho would've expected them to, all things considered. They talk about everything and nothing

(about Chansung and new choreographies, about Soyeon— this girl from the styling department— and home and the sea and what they'd do if they weren't doing this, and once— once they talk about their dads, about drunken shouts and unsupportiveness and Junho doesn't think that's a safe topic anymore because Wooyoung cries before his story is over and Junho doesn't know what to _do_ to make him stop.

"It's okay," he says, and shrugs a shoulder when Wooyoung looks up from his sleeves and the damp spot of fresh tears he's just cleaned from his eyes, "It really _is_ , Wooyoung."

And Wooyoung shakes his head, smile sad and wrinkled, "It's not, Junho, it's not and you know it"),

and sometimes they don't even have to talk— they sit in silence, with coffee or tea or beer or water, and they _exist_.

They breathe thick silence and unspoken words and guilty stares and for a moment Junho realizes he doesn't _have_ to hate it, and most importantly, he doesn't have to hate it alone, because, Wooyoung? Wooyoung wants it almost as bad a Junho does, and Junho thinks— Junho thinks _cool, yeah, it's good not to feel so alone in this_. And he can see it, can see it in the way Wooyoung moves, the way he flicks his hair and the way his eyes scan the stage before he's about to set foot on it. Junho sees it in the way Wooyoung drives himself, sometimes a bit too hard, a bit too reckless, but it's there to see, and Junho wonders if he's as obvious as Wooyoung is or maybe he can spot it out because they're so alike underneath it all.

Wooyoung isn't polite silences when things don't make sense, Wooyoung isn't toothy grins to appease a frown, Wooyoung isn't fidgeting fingers on top of denim clad thighs— Wooyoung is just _not_.

"Are you ever scared?" he asks Junho once when they're the only ones left in the studio. It's the one in the furthest corner of the building, the one that has mold in the walls and dirt in the windows that's probably been there before they were even in the company.

Junho fumbles with the ratty stereo they've borrowed from one of their trainers, trying to find the correct volume to the song they're about to dance to so the mirrors don't shake.

"I'm always scared," he says, his brain-to-mouth filter half asleep at four am.

"Of— I mean— of _it_ ?" and Junho wonders when the hell did they get close enough for actual sense to be left out of their conversations, but he _gets_ it, probably even more than Wooyoung does.

Of staying, of leaving, of having your heart broken, of waking up one day to find out this isn't how you really wanted it to go, of thinking maybe you got lucky but aren't really half as good as they make you to be, of not being good enough, of thinking you'd be actually so much better doing it alone— that's what Wooyoung means. That, and possibly more.

"All the time," he says, and Wooyoung nods.

"It's a bit like a roller-coaster, isn't it?" he asks. "Up or down— it's dizzy as fuck either way. You just gotta hold on and pray you won't puke."

Junho turns up the volume loud enough to make the bass echo through the hall and counts them into formation.

  
  


(When Wooyoung gets the spotlight, Junho doesn't hate him for it. He actually feels happy for Wooyoung, they all do. There's a celebratory party and there are drinks involved and Wooyoung is grinning so widely Junho just can't find it in himself to feel something other than joy.

"I want you in it," is the first thing Wooyoung says when they've all knocked down a shot of something weird looking and even weirder tasting. "Want you to help me out with it. Yeah?"

And Junho nods because yeah, why the fuck not, this is Wooyoung and Wooyoung is. Well, Wooyoung is his friend.

It's weird, feels out of place— like he's standing at the very top of a cliff, one foot already set to jump and his whole body being tugged backwards and away from it by the same people who're shouting _jump jump jump_ at him— but he doesn't question it.)

  


 

The thing with Chansung grows. and when Junho falls, he falls hard.

He doesn't mean to, though— god knows he doesn't— but Chansung is warm in places Junho has never learned how to be, his fingers insistent but gentle and he always makes Junho feel safe. He tucks Junho under his arm, wraps arms and legs around him and squeezes, and it's like Junho can't breathe— he really can't, he's too full, too full of Chansung, too full of air, too much all too soon— but it doesn't feel wrong or out of place or dangerous, it just feels—

It feels right and yet so wrong, and it's baffling, this ability of Chansung's to make Junho feel lost and helpless and like he's about to have a heart attack.

It becomes a thing between them. There are warm kisses dropped here and there, and Junho tucks those deeply in his heart, locks them so deep within himself it becomes _his_ secret instead of theirs (Junho holds more secrets than he can actually carry and it sucks, having to keep them from Chansung but— but the less Chansung knows how fucked up Junho really is, the better).

They cuddle a lot when they're not busy and Junho likes it, likes the way Chansung fits into every corner of his body like he was made for it, like they were made for each other.

And for a while Junho is happy, truly happy, and the voices at the back of his head are nothing but a quiet murmur, and he thinks, _leaving?_

("Do you really have to go?" Chansung murmurs, his lips brushing at the back of Junho's neck. They're chapped and warm and the t-shirt he's wearing is Junho's and Junho doesn't know what to do with his heart when Chansung says,

"I don't want you to go,"

because it's the first time someone's asked, someone's cared enough for Junho to make him stay, and honestly speaking Junho doesn't want to go either, wants to stay with Chansung draped all over his back and his hands fitting in between Junho's.

"Minjae's going to bitch," he says quietly, sullenly, because he cares very little if Minjae throws a fit over it and threatens to resign yet again. He hasn't gone through with it in the last two years, Junho doubts he'll do it just because he missed one goddamn photo-shoot.

"I'm going to miss you a lot," Chansung says, and Junho can feel the stretch of his smile burning imprints against the top of his spine.

"Me too," Junho says, and it holds so much truth he can actually taste it on his tongue, warm and sweet and real)

_Why would I want to leave this?_

  


 

Good things don't last long, though.

It's the universal truth, the way the world works, and Junho knows better than to question it, knows there really isn't anything he can say about it if Jieun and Soojin and his dad are living proof of it. _It's pointless_ , he tells himself, this is another lost battle.

"He said—" Chansung clears his throat slightly, fidgeting under the blankets.

Junho likes Chansung like this, wrapped in ten blankets, his cheeks pink from the heat of them but his nose cold from the horrible heater that breaks every other day. His hair is a mess and it's sticking up at odd directions and Junho's fingers itch to run themselves through the reddish strands on Chansung's fringe. He doesn't, though, now's not the time.

"He said it would be good if I started dating. But like. In secret. It's complete bullshit, but. Yeah."

It feels like a blow to the gut

("Go out with me?" Chansung asks, the eyeliner under his eyes smudged and horrible and his hair still greasy from the shooting. His hair band catches some light and Junho squints his eyes. _He shouldn't look so good still_ , Junho thinks absently as he steps on his sore ankle.

"Go out? As in, like, a date?" he squints his eyes again at Chansung's nod. "Bit late for that, don't you think? I mean, you literally fucked my brains out just three hours ago, why would you—"

Chansung cackles, pulls Junho closer by the front of his dark tank top to press their mouths together, "You're so stupid, god, shut up," and Junho thinks, _Yeah, I am, but don't use it against me_ ),

like someone physically reaching into his stomach and twisting everything inside him into knots. Truth is, he'd expected something like this happening— but not this soon. Probably management is as good as they think they are, controlling the crisis or whatever Minjae went on about once and led to Junho being thought as homophobic by the entire nation.

Really, if people only _knew_.

Junho tugs on the blanket he's got and wraps it tighter around him. His nose is freezing, too, and the dip of Chansung's collar bones looks like the best place to nuzzle at but—

"I think you should," he says slowly.

Chansung's eyes are wide when Junho looks up from the loose thread of wool hanging off one corner of the blanket he's holding, his brow furrowed slightly. He licks hips lips, silent, waiting perhaps for the punch-line, for Junho to speak up again and say something like "Ha-ha, I'm joking, you idiot, shut up and kiss me."

Junho isn't joking, though.

"Are you serious," Chansung deadpans, and his voice is steely, carefully controlled. His eyes grow dark the longer Junho stays silent and there's something like sadness and pity in them that Junho wants to look away from but can't.

There's so much he _wants_ to do when it comes to Chansung but simply _can't_.

And Junho is serious. This is— this is fucked up, but it's exactly what he'd been waiting for— an out. The voices in his head are screaming at Chansung to take it, to just go with it because this way it'll hurt less, this way Junho gets to walk out before Chansung does, before Chansung starts ducking out the back of restaurants with a pretty girl in tow because Junho _knows_ it'll end up like that and there's nothing they can do about it, nothing Junho can do about it.

And this is _it_ , this is the only way out of it unscathed.

"I am," he says, holding Chansung's gaze and willing the nausea away. "I promise."

  


 

Chansung tries to fix them. He tries so hard to break past Junho's stubborn bubble that Junho feels himself falling in love a little bit more every time Chansung knocks on his door in the middle of the night and asks whether they can talk, please, please, Junho, _I don't understand_ , please, but Junho doesn't budge— he _can't_.

This is for the best— it hurts as fuck but it'll hurt less in the future and things will go back to normal soon— they _better—_ and then they'll look back and laugh about it, ha-ha. Junho wishes Chansung could _see_ that, could see Junho is protecting them both.

Except when Chansung does see it, when Chansung stops knocking on his door or talking to him altogether, Junho feels like he's literally having his limbs ripped off and his heart stepped on.

And it goes on like that for days. Days turn into months and when Chansung moves on and finds a girl with pretty eyes and a charming smile that management likes enough, Junho is happy for him, he really is. Or at least he tries to.

There's a shift in it, in them, and everyone takes notice even if they don't talk about it. Wooyoung stops asking about it near New Year's Eve, when Chansung announces he's going to spend his holidays tucked away at his girlfriend's place.

And Junho smiles at the news, chuckles when Taecyeon makes a joke about it because what else is he supposed to do? He takes it like a man and lets Wooyoung cuddle close when they share the couch, and appreciates the silence that fills them from the inside out, warm and buzzing and pleasant.

"It's gonna be okay," he tells Wooyoung when the movie they're watching goes into commercials, and Wooyoung only hums in response.

( _It's gonna be okay_ , Junho repeats as he packs for Africa and Chansung packs for the suburbs, and resolutely tells himself it does not hurt.)

 

 

 

It's not like Junho consciously makes the decision to start sleeping around. And it's not like he _sleeps around_ , either, he just has casual sex from time to time like a regular grown-up would. (And, yeah, maybe he doesn't have preferences but it's because Junho likes people, not genders.)

It's not payback (Wooyoung can suck it) and it's not him trying to find himself (Minhye definitely knows too much), it's more like Junho just needs an _out_ . Needs to be able to control something in his life and a hook-up is horribly easy to deal with. (At least he's careful about it and hasn't gotten anyone knocked up and are willing to keep it low and not run to the press with pictures as evidence of Junho's doings so, really, their managers should take that into consideration. Send him a fruit basket or even flowers, you know, or even _back the fuck off and let him be_.)

But the thing is everyone tries to play dumb and that's probably what makes Junho even more pissed.

Junho has never liked people who talk behind his back (or people who talk behind other people's back, period), be it good or bad, so when he walks into the dorm one night and accidentally catches Wooyoung and Minjun holding a conversation over a rerun of _Music and Lyrics_ , his gut clenches to the point of disgust.

"I sincerely hope he's using protection," Minjun says quietly, and even through the anger boiling his blood hot in his ears, Junho _can_ hear the genuine concern in Minjun's voice.

He just deliberately chooses to ignore it.

"I'm worried, you know," Wooyoung says, "I knew he had issues but I didn't know they were this bad."

And that, Junho thinks, is fucking rich coming from Wooyoung of all people. (A voice in his head says, _I told you so_ , and Junho snaps back at it, _Fuck, yes, you did, now shut the fuck up_.)

"My issues are none of your business," he says slowly, leaning against the threshold. He catches the way both Minjun and Wooyoung stiffen on their seats, both of them turning slowly towards him with worry in their eyes and a bit of panic that Junho finds sick satisfaction in.

"Neither is who I fuck or not," he adds, just because he can. This? This he can totally do.

Minjun opens his mouth first, but Junho shakes his head, "Save it. I give two shits and a half about what either of you might think of me."

Wooyoung's eyes widen and Minjun's mouth closes with a loud snap. "Junho—"

"You can shove that up your ass, too," Junho says, his eyes on Wooyoung's and he thinks— pleads— _snap at me, get physical, punch me so I can punch you back and get it over with, do it so I can leave_.

It's scary, how much Junho actually _wants_ to leave. It, them, everything, it doesn't matter. This is something he hasn't thought about in a long while— since Chansung, and _fuck,_ so not what he needs right now— but it sounds tempting, sounds like an out, and Junho wants it, might need it more than he's willing to admit.

Except Wooyoung doesn't punch him, hardly seems to be even breathing. Junho takes that as the end of it, and when he heaves himself off the wall and turns to make it towards his room, he finds Chansung standing at the end of the hall, his eyes burning holes through Junho's clothes and skin and bones; Junho's sure there's nothing left of him for Chansung to keep on burning with his eyes anymore when he looks away.

And then Chansung's gone, his door closing with a quiet sound and it feels final, and Junho doesn't know what to make of it because things were supposed to be over long ago.

  
  


Nichkhun doesn't play dumb, though. In fact, Junho thinks Nichkhun might not even actually care.

They go out drinking more often than not recently and Junho is making up his tenth excuse of the night when Nichkhun shoves a shot of tequila across the table and says,

"Shut the fuck up and drink, young one."

So, Junho blinks, his fingers closing around the small glass, and when he downs it he tries not to focus too much on Nichkhun's lips tugging upwards but more on the burning in his stomach and breathing in deeply so he won't choke.

It's warm and fuzzy by the time Junho downs his fourth shot and he's getting the hang of this salt-tequila-lemon thing when Nichkhun throws a careful arm over his shoulders.

"Feeling better, young one?" he asks and Junho nods rather wobbly. "Glad you are. Let's keep'em coming, then, shall we?"

They do shots until around two am (which Junho finds extremely hilarious in his inebriated state because Seulong is somewhere in the club, too) and yet Junho is nowhere near drunk enough. There's a buzz at the back of his head, a loud thrumming that echoes through him every time he moves or talks or breathes, and his eyes are tight at the corners, screaming at him to just give up and sleep.

(This is the furthest he's gone up when it comes to alcohol, the last time he had a glass of wine he ended up sleeping for six hours and even woke up with a hangover everyone made fun of.)

But Junho doesn't sleep. He downs half a bottle of tequila by himself when Nichkhun finds a pretty girl to dance with and it's— nice. It's good, the numbness in his joints and the blur in his brain because this way he doesn't have to listen to the voices inside his head whispering quietly into his ear about god knows what.

Junho is kind of getting tired of them, in all honesty.

(He's talked about them with his sister, and even if Minhye is going to make one hell of a psychiatrist, there's still stuff one can't just go spilling to their older sisters. Junho has more dignity than that. So, he just mentions how sometimes he feels insecure and anxious and she says it's normal, with the way they live and everything, and Junho can't help but think _If you only knew_.)

The smell of fruity perfume hits his nostrils before she's even within arms' reach. She's got dark lashes and legs that go on for days and the skin of her bare thighs is soft under Junho's fingers. He takes her to the restroom and fucks her against the wall, her skirt bunched up around her hips and her panties hanging off one of her ankles and Junho doesn't care, doesn't even _think_ as he thrusts into her and she moans this quiet little things into his neck, doesn't even feel the pain of her red, long nails digging on his shoulder blades when he cups her breasts and squeezes perhaps a bit too hard, wishing it were taut muscles instead of soft flesh.

It's over pretty soon— like everything in his life, he thinks— and he ignores her while tucking himself back into his pants, his fingers sloppy from alcohol and the cheap lube from the condom. She says something about how she wouldn't mind doing this any time soon but Junho is not drunk enough to agree into something he'll most likely regret later.

"Right," he says, opening the door, "I'll call you," and easily walks out on her pointing out she's not given her his number yet because he's done this before, a very alarming amount of times.

It's like falling directions, a dance routine, five, six, seven, eight, that's the amount of beats it takes Junho to get back into the throbbing music.

Getting lost in the crowd is easy after that. Nichkhun is somewhere in there and Junho swears he catches a glimpse of his ear and eye as he makes his way back towards the bar but it might also be the alcohol tricking him. He finds his seat soon enough and he must be knocking his third post-sex shot when Nichkhun drops himself beside him, hair plastered to his forehead and the first three buttons of his shirt undone.

"I feel like I'm corrupting you," Nichkhun says, stealing the slice of lime Junho's holding to down himself a shot.

Junho snorts. "Little to nothing left to corrupt, I'm afraid."

Nichkhun says nothing to that but his eyes grow soft around the edges, and Junho downs two shots in a row just so he can forget about the whole night come morning.

  
  


(It turns into a thing. Into Junho's thing, mostly. Because, yeah, Junho's alone and who'd want to share straight vodka at fuck am. It turns into Junho's thing because it makes his brain numb, the alcohol whooshing in his ears and making his fingertips drag along everything he comes in contact with— but mostly, it helps to keep the voices at bay long enough to make it through the week.

The others don't find out, though, and Junho swears this is the only secret worth keeping from them.)

  


 

When they hear about Tokyo Dome, three things happen. One, Wooyoung drops on his seat and starts getting paler and paler, Taecyeon manages to trip over a chair and send a flowerpot crashing to the floor, and Junho feels his stomach tighten so much he's pretty sure he's going to throw up on all of them.

Everyone is chirpy on the way home, Junho adding his own comments from time to time (mostly because Nichkhun is sitting next to him and keeps on nudging Junho's ribs) and for a while he thinks, _Yeah, damn it, look at how far we've got, we fucking deserve it, in fact, why hasn't it happened sooner?_

It's a quarter to three am when he sneaks out of his room to find a clean glass he can pour some of his stashed vodka in (and let no man say Lee Junho never understood the importance of _provisions_ ). He walks into the kitchen and picks up a bright pink cup from the drying rack as quietly as he possibly can, and when he pushes the door to his room open, Chansung decides to open his and—

And for a minute they stare at each other, Junho with his hand around the doorknob and Chansung with his fingers digging into the wooden frame of his door. And it's like they _know_ , or more like _Chansung_ knows, because he looks at Junho's hand, the one holding the pink glass and doesn’t look away until he says,

"That's Minjun's."

Junho shrugs, bitterness on his tongue. "A glass is a glass."

Chansung's lips twitch but his eyes are sad, impossibly so— like he knows what this means. Junho hates him a bit, for _knowing_ so much about Junho, for knowing stuff Junho doesn't know about himself in the first place. Junho's eyes blur everything into pastel tones and Chansung's cheeks look pink, pink and soft and Junho misses _him_ , misses Chansung in more ways than he can possibly start counting.

It's been a pathetic turn of events so far, but that doesn't make it any less real.

"You'd know," Chansung says quietly.

"Damn right I would," Junho admits— he even manages to smile back— and drinks until he passes out on his bed, the sheets warm and the vodka in his blood even warmer.

And— and when the day comes, he tells himself to stop shitting around, to get a grip because he needs to do this, needs it like he needs air and possibly more than that. He chugs a shot of tequila, raw, and ignores everyone as they go through preps, his palms sweaty and his heart nearly into a coronary.

He ignores Chansung through half of make-up because Chansung is loud before he gets to be on stage and even louder when he's off it (and because Chansung makes everything for Junho at least a billion times harder to deal with), and manages to tune him off fifteen minutes before they're due.

It's painful, though, trying so _hard_ . Chansung is constant, he's flow and uncoordinated movement that still make Junho feel like his heart is on fire, and Junho can catch him through the corner of his eye, even if there's an eyeliner poking at him and Jooyeon telling him, for the fifth time in the last three minutes, to stop fidgeting around. Chansung throws grins at everyone, hyper from the whole experience, and it hurts a bit— _a fucking lot_ — that none of those are directed at Junho anymore and—

Damn it. So not what he needs to be doing right now.

He stills himself when someone shouts "Take your places, guys!" and his eyes stray away from Chansung as he walks up the flight of stairs leading to one of the exits for the stage.

His mind is carefully blank as he goes through the stage directions he knows by heart already and thinks he can make it, he can fucking _make it_ and—

And then Chansung walks past him, his fingers brushing the back of Junho's hand and that's _it_.

  


 

Nichkhun breaks first, his fingers tight and clammy around Junho's. It's white noise, what Nichkhun says. _I'm sorry_ s and _I love you_ s and _thank you_ s that Junho's heard enough of. It's painful to go through it again, though, it's a pull that goes from his fingertips and all the way to his heart, tug, tug, tug, until Junho can't breathe, can't see, can't hear anything but the insistent way his heart beats inside his chest, almost trying to break free and past the tight knot in his throat.

He doesn't panic this time when Nichkhun's tears start to spill, he just sighs _Fuck it_ and hugs Nichkhun and holds on for dear life. He presses his lips to Nichkhun's temple when the screams go louder, and somewhere in between them is Chansung's voice cursing repeatedly as he hugs both Nichkhun and him (Junho cringes at how every part of his body coming in contact with Chansung seems to be set on fire but he ignores it and sucks in great gulps of air), and then there's Minjun, too, muffling a hiccup against the back of Nichkhun's neck and it's like they all come to full circle, pieces of a puzzle fitting into place.

Junho can literally hear them slotting into one another, the sound echoing throughout the whole arena, and it scares him, reminds him of Chansung and how perfect he felt tucked against Junho's side and—

It's heavy and warm and sweaty and just so fucking _hot_ Junho breathes in slowly through his nose, his whole body shaking and thrumming from the inside out. His shoulder is getting soaked from someone's tears and someone's hair is poking his eyes and making them sting more and there are arms around him, solid and heavy and warm and familiar, and he just—

("Wait," Chansung says, his fingers tight around Junho's wrist, and fuck, the screams are still loud out there and Junho wants to scream too, loud and long until his lungs give out and his body aches with it.

He turns around and it's fucking _stupid_ how his lips are already parted for Chansung's, even if the alarms going off in his head are the loudest they've ever been)

he just wants to _run away_.

  
  


They offer him a solo. In japan, no less. Junho is out of it, wants to ask them if they're taking the piss or if it's _real_ , this whole thing, everything, if they're actually accepting to record _his_ songs into an album with _his_ name on it.

His muscles are pulled tight under his skin, his whole body thrumming with excitement, and a bit of happiness he hasn't felt in a long while. It's different from last time, from the Tokyo Dome high and the comeback after it and everything they'd gone through. Now there's no _they_ , nor _them_ , now it's Junho, Junho by himself and—

And fuck, he's scared. Because, what if he's not enough, what if he fucks up royally, big time, bad enough for everything to crumble beneath him. Junho's scared and he's got good reason for it.

There's a party again. They celebrate and they drink and they dance but it's like he's not part of it, feels like he's watching from the outside as his entire world comes down to its breaking point: _this is it_ . And it _is_ , the voices at the back of his mind are singing with it, loud and obnoxious and Junho wants them to shut it, because he can't hear Wooyoung's drunken karaoke or Minjun's catcalls and he _needs_ to so he knows it's real, it's happening, but all he can hear is this white noise, _You deserve this, it was about fucking time, just don't fuck it up now_.

Junho can't hear a thing, can't breathe with how tight his chest is pulled, his gut clenched. He knocks down a shot of whatever it is Taecyeon ordered for them and then slips out of their VIP booth in lieu of _air_ , lots of it. He doesn't make it far, though, and he's standing in the middle of the hall leading to the restrooms, the music a quiet thrum against his body, when Chansung walks out of the men's room.

"Not good enough company, I suppose?" he says, snidely and hurtful, like he's learned to be.

Junho would take pride on it since it's his doing but it actually hurts a bit.

He shakes his head, throat tight. "Need air," is all he says, and walks past Chansung and towards the stairs leading to the parking lot.

He tries to miss the way Chansung's face falls a bit at it and how he seems to be about to let himself fall forward on his feet to reach Junho but catches himself at the last second. Junho tries to let it all go, tries to play dumb because if he doesn't it'll _hurt_ , and he can't deal with it, not right now, not when he's got the spotlight for himself.

It's not fresh air what welcomes him when he reaches the parking floor but the stench of gasoline and tires, but it'll have to make do. He sits at the bottom step of the stairs and pulls his legs up, burying his face in between his knees.

Breathe in, breathe out, is what they say.

  
  


(They say they want more fan-service. They want scandals, they want fans ripping their hair off. Okay, maybe the latter is not really what they said but it's what it bodes up to nonetheless, so there's that. All six of them nod, smile tightly because this is the most awkward part of the meeting.

"You should take up from Chansung's example and date in secret, too," one of them says. It's a fat dude with a bit of acne scars on his rosy cheeks. Junho hates him, wants to jump over the table and break every bit of that smirk with his fists.

He doesn't, though, he's sober.

They're taken to a photo-shoot location after that and Chansung sits next to him in the car, and since Taecyeon had to do that Global Wedding project shit, they're taking cabs, Nichkhun, Chansung and him; Wooyoung, Minjun and Jooseob taking another one. Not the best idea management's had so far but it works. Junho's taken the window and he's staring through the tinted glass when Nichkhun says, sitting at the other end of the bench,

"I used to like fan-service," in a quiet voice.

Chansung stiffens next to him and lets out a dry chuckle and a, "Yeah. Yeah, me too."

Junho doesn't even bother opening his mouth, and when the days come, he rolls with the punches. He smiles at Chansung and Chansung smiles back at him and it's hilarious, really, because when they step off the stage Chansung won't even _look_ at him and yet Junho can feel him on his skin, always.)

  
  


The stage feels empty.

Junho loves it, though, loves the lights and the music and the screams, loves it a bit too much and a bit too fiercely, but it's okay, this is okay, it _feels_ okay, so it must be.

But it feels painfully empty as well and Junho doesn't know what to do with that, with the fear and the anxiety creeping its way up his spine. He sings louder, dances harder, whole body drenched in sweat, and thinks, _This is it. This is what I wanted. This is what I really, really wanted, this is what I worked so hard for_ , and tries not to feel sixteen all over again.

He fails, but no one needs to know; no one needs to know he downs half a bottle of whiskey before he's on stage for the last venue of his solo tour— _his fucking solo tour—_ and no one, especially Chansung (though Junho doubts Chansung even _cares_ at this point), can know how desperately close Junho is to just _losing it_.

 

 

  
It all comes crashing down a bit too soon.

See, it's not like he's gone on stage while drunk or been caught with his pants down in someone's bed (or blurted he's gone for Chansung, whole career be damned— Junho's considered it but never acted upon it, not even when drunk off his ass, thank _god_ ), but it's more like he starts retracting himself from everything.

Everything except alcohol, because somehow alcohol makes it all better, easier, makes days blur into hours and hours blur into whooshes of light and white noise.

And then one day—

And then one day he walks in on Chansung and his pretty girlfriend making out on the couch and isn't that just fucking rich. But Junho's heart doesn't break, just keeps on beating, thud, thud, thud, echoing through his veins, and that's all there is to it, no heartbreak, no disillusion, _nothing_. Junho should feel betrayed, at the very least, even if he's got no right to do so.

It's a bit worrisome, in fact, how he's still so composed about it. Maybe he's not drunk enough yet.

They pull apart as if they've been burnt and she's the only one who looks the most apologetic. Junho could actually feel sorry for her at the furthest corner of his mind, but he doesn't, not _here_ , not in the place he calls home, no matter how bad he just wants to leave it behind. He levels Chansung with a stare and is not even surprised at the way Chansung's jaw is drawn tight over his clenched teeth, almost daring Junho to say something.

And Junho—

Junho's too tired and not nearly drunk enough to even start calling bullshit at the top of his lungs.

"By all means," he says as he walks past the couch and into the hall leading to his room, "do carry on." He closes the door on Chansung's face when Chansung catches up with him with a " _Wait, Junho,_ hold on," and he locks it, too, just in case, because talking is not something he can _do_ right now, not to Chansung, or anyone else.

Spending the day drinking in his room all by himself is nothing new, except this time it feels suffocating, like the walls are tugging at him in every direction and he doesn't know which way to give into first. So he stands slowly, dragging his feet towards his closet, and stares at it for ten seconds before deciding he doesn't need to take everything with him— he can't fit all these years in any of his suitcases, and he's not sure if he wants to.

  


 

And then Junho's gone. He hands in his resignation (his lawyer says he was two months away from end of contract, anyway, they all were) and Jinyoung just smiles tightly at him, saying, "It's been fun, hasn't it, Junho?"

Junho doesn't answer, can hardly look up from the table, and when he takes a flight to Berkeley, runs away from them, from every single one of them

("They're not gonna stop calling," his lawyer says, his eyes on Junho's phone.

"I know," Junho answers, and lets the nth call go straight to voicemail.

"You should talk to them," his lawyer tries next.

"I know," Junho says, but doesn't move an inch when Nichkhun's name flashes across the screen again),

he tells himself he's not going to miss it, he absolutely won't.

 

-

 

There's an elephant sitting on his head by the time he comes around, and someone must have ran him over when he wasn't looking because it's like every muscle and bone in his body is broken beyond repair. His mouth is parched and when he thinks of maybe brushing his teeth to kick the dead cat in his mouth away, his stomach churns at the sole idea of toothpaste.

It doesn't sound as appealing anymore, oral hygiene.

He opens his eyes slowly— god, it's like someone carved them out with a spoon, rolled them in sand and then stuffed them back into his skull— and looks around his room, at the white walls and the wooden closet with one of its doors hanging off its hinges that always creaks unbearably loud when he tries to close it.

The curtains are pulled closed but there's a crack in the middle, purposefully designed by Junho himself to know what time of the day it is even through the worst part of his hangovers, and there's pale light sipping through it, pale and silver and so like New York at five pm.

When he hears the muffled sounds outside his room, his first thought is "Damn it, Minhye is here", and the second one is "She's gonna be so _pissed_ ." Minhye usually doesn't let him sleep his hangovers, though, she gets off on human pain and torturing a hangover Junho is one of her greatest pleasures in life. He strains his ears, propping himself on his elbows to get a better view of the door, and faintly catches a grunt— a _male_ grunt, mind.

Junho's fourth thought since he wakes up is, "My sister is having sex with an unidentified male in the middle of the hall."

And no one can blame him, really, there's only so much he can come up with when hangover. Besides, he's thirsty as fuck and his brain is one step away from complete dehydration and Junho can _feel_ his tongue starting to get ashy and sandy and about to melt or some shit and what did he drink last night, again?

And that's when it hits him, Nichkhun and wine and more wine and black. Junho's sixth thought is, "My sister is having sex with Nichkhun", and really, that's just— not. So not ideal.

The shuffling sounds outside his door grow a bit quiet when he groans and flops back on the bed (a bit too hard, at that, his head is pounding in retaliation), and after that there are more voices taking over, as in _male_ voices.

The door creaks open and Junho expects to find Nichkhun's auburn hair poking behind it but—

"Hey, buddy, sorry. Did we wake you?" Wooyoung asks, his voice thick with sleep.

 _Fuck_ , Junho thinks for a second, _I dreamed the whole thing— San Francisco and New York and running away and_ —

But no, it can't be, because this is _his_ room in _his_ New York flat in _his_ runaway life. So, either drinking has finally fucked him up, or Nichkhun slipped something in his drink. He's not so comfortable about the latter.

"Uhm," he tries, blinking a few times to make sure that it is, in fact, Jang Wooyoung walking into his room and quietly closing the door behind him. His voice is squeakier than normal when he starts again, "What—"

"Don't panic," Wooyoung says, and sits at the end of Junho's bed, his hoodie covering up half his face. "Hear me out, okay? Might as well get it all out before you go apeshit on us."

Junho nods dumbly. He's not sure he can do anything else right now. Somewhere in his mind, there's a quiet voice saying, _Blame it on the alcohol_. That voice needs to shut the fuck up, seriously. In fact, all voices need to shut the fuck up and give Junho a break.

"Khun called us like, a week ago," Wooyoung starts, and now that he wears no make-up, Junho can see it, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes, tiny but real, and he looks _real_ , so real Junho admits yeah, maybe he isn't hallucinating (this time).

"He said you'd sent him an email— we haven't asked about it— but, like. It'd taken him by surprise, y'know, 'cause you haven't talked to any of us in— well, years. He got in touch with your sister right after and bribed her into giving him your number or something. I was in LA by the time he called me the first time so it wasn't that difficult when he called in again a couple of days ago and sorta asked me to come by."

"Okay," Junho says in a small voice, and he can hear more noises outside his room, the flat not so loud but not as quiet as it should be, either.

"Then he came over on Friday— It's, uh, Sunday, by the way, you've been on and off for about two days now, man, only got up to wretch—" Junho makes a choking sound at this because that hasn't happened before and, yeah, sounds scary as fuck since he has no recollection of it happening at all, either, "And I guess he panicked when you passed out because I have thirteen angry voicemails about me being a dick for not answering while I was at church watching my sister get married. He feels sorry for it, too, y'know. For the drinking. He'll probably come later to apologize."

"Your… your sister got married?" Junho asks feebly. He's pretty sure the walls around him are cracking and, fuck, there's that elephant again sitting on his head.

Wooyoung nods, "Yeah, but it's only her first marriage, it's not like I'm missing out or anything." His lips twitch at that and Junho finds himself smiling a bit, although still guarded because he hasn't seen Wooyoung in— _god_ , almost five years now— and he doesn't know if he's allowed to smile at him or with him anymore.

There's so much Junho doesn't know right now he can feel a panic attack starting to claw its way up his chest.

"Anyway," Wooyoung continues, sighing deeply, "Minjun took the first flight he could find and he just got in like, half an hour ago, and so did Taec, though he was in Mexico."

"What time is it? Have you guys eaten yet? I'm sure I can order some take-out or something, how do you feel about Indian?" Junho asks as he sits up, desperate to stir the conversation into a different path because Wooyoung's one name short and Junho isn't ready to know if—

"Junho," Wooyoung says softly.

It breaks Junho from the inside out, makes his gut clench and his joints ache and it makes his hangover a billion times worse. Now it's like the elephant is sitting on top of him rather than his head only.

"He got here before I did, you know," Wooyoung adds, his lips pink and bitten. "And I was, like, two hours away." Junho tries to dismiss that bit of information. Wooyoung sighs, "He's only gone to bed now because we shoved his head onto a pillow. He actually liked the flowery duvet, though, I could see it in his eyes."

"That's Minhye's room," Junho attempts to crack a laugh and fails miserably. "The guest one, I mean. That's hers." He swallows thickly, looks up at the ceiling. "Fuck," he breathes. "You really _are_ here, aren't you?"

"We're not here to, like," Wooyoung falters, "dunno, make an intervention or anything, you know. We're here because your birthday is close and we'd all thought about getting in touch? I mean, even if we hadn't planned it consciously together."

Junho stops himself from asking whether that applies to Chansung as well in order to curl over the edge of his bed to find the bucket he keeps under it and let wine, bile, tears and snot out, and Wooyoung—

Wooyoung holds his fringe back for him, his hand warm over Junho's forehead and even like that, it doesn't stop hurting.

 

 

 

("You know," Wooyoung says once Junho's stopped retching and the light through the crack in the curtains isn't pale anymore. "We were all scared shitless back then."

"I know," Junho mumbles quietly, and Wooyoung, bless him, leaves it at that.)

  
  


Junho wakes up the second time to find his room empty and the bucket gone. He sits up slowly, his head only thumping slightly, and when he makes it out of his room about ten minutes later, the lights are off and the only sound is coming from the TV; Taecyeon, Minjun and Nichkhun are curled up together on the large couch and Wooyoung's flung himself across the love seat, his neck sticking up at an odd angle, and—

"Hey."

And Chansung— Hwang _fucking_ Chansung is standing in front of him, dressed in a grey sweatshirt with _I heart NY_ across the front and dark jogging bottoms. His hair is short at the sides but slightly longer and wavy at the top. Reminds Junho of years ago, remembers Chansung's annoyed sway of arms whenever he ran his fingers through it carelessly.

It's wet, too, his fringe sticking to his forehead, and it's easy, _so easy_ , to picture this happening on a daily basis: Chansung walking out of Junho's shower and just _breathing_ the same air Junho does, and it _shouldn't_ be, fuck _no_ , because it's been _ages_ and it shouldn't feel this way, like no time has passed at all.

"Hey, hi," Junho croaks out, hand flying blind towards the wall to steady himself. Or maybe to stop it from running into him, it's hard to tell.

"It's—" Chansung starts, his eyes swaying quickly from Junho to his hand curled on the threshold. "Glad to see you're up."

Junho nods. "Yeah. Thanks."

Suddenly it feels like some kind of déjà vu— a very painful one, leaves him boneless and weak— and he doesn't know what hurts the most, the pity in Chansung's eyes when he takes over Junho's wrinkled clothes and messy hair (god, he must look like a wreck, but at least he had the mind to pull on a new t-shirt); or the way he looks so good standing in the middle of Junho's flat— Junho's life— even after all these years, like he'd been there all this time just waiting for Junho to _see_ him.

Chansung clears his throat. "Are you hungry? Nichkhun ordered in for us. It's Italian."

Junho shakes his head, stepping back into the direction of his room. "No, I'm cool. Thanks. Actually, I'm gonna—"

"Oh, look who's up, god, Lee Junho, you look like shit," Minjun drawls as he stands up and then he's wrapping arms around Junho, tight, tight. "Quite a scare you gave us there, kid, I'm glad you're okay now," he says, softer this time, his mouth close to Junho's hair, and Junho hugs back on auto-pilot.

Then comes Taecyeon, Taecyeon who is unshaved and far skinnier than Junho remembers. "Actually I think you look very lovely," he says, and smiles as he pats Junho's shoulder warmly.

"Uhm, thanks," Junho says, smiling faintly.

They all stand awkwardly in the middle of the hall (Nichkhun stands behind Taecyeon and he looks guilty, and Junho wants to reach out for him, tell him it's okay but he's not certain it _is_ okay, not yet), and it's not even that big, so it's no wonder Junho suddenly feels like he can't breathe, like he—

It's a bit like the first time they saw each other after Mr. Kim's funeral and Junsu was no longer Junsu to become Minjun and Junho's trip to Africa— it's awkward and everyone can hear the eggshells cracking beneath their feet and they don't know what the right thing to say is anymore. Junho feels it again, the need to run away, to leave and not be asked to stay, remembers the only thing that could keep the stench of dirt and death off his skin was the sweet smell of rum, and Junho—

Junho's not sure he can handle that all over again, especially right now. Especially with Chansung still standing so close and looking so _good_ and so _impossible_ and just _real_.

His whole body is thrumming, soft little tremors that start at the top of his spine and end in his calves, his knees quivering, and he doesn't know how to calm his nerves (except he does) and he tells himself a drink is not what he needs (except it is).

"I gotta," he starts, but doesn't elaborate further as he dives into the kitchen, and he can feel everyone's eyes on him boring through his old, ratty, blue t-shirt when he opens a cabinet above the microwave and pulls out half a bottle of vodka.

His senses seem to go into a buzzing state when he swallows past the first sip, and god, Junho's never hated himself so much before, especially when he feels lighter and can breathe easier, _better_ than he did just ten seconds ago.

"Can't fucking believe this," comes the rasp from the hall, Chansung's voice crisp and tight around the consonants, and Junho thinks _Finally_.

Because, this? This he can do. Snapping? That's totally his gig, he can do it gagged and unconscious and probably in four different languages.

 _You've an out_ , Junho thinks as he turns towards them and faces Chansung dead on. _You have an out, I'm giving you a way out so just fucking take it_.

"What," he says flatly, his fingers tightening around the glass just so.

" _You_ ," Chansung manages to spit through gritted teeth and it shakes something in Junho, watching Chansung slowly lose it. "You're so full of shit, Junho. You were choking on your own bile just _yesterday_ . We had to literally pull you out of your own vomit so you could _breathe_."

And that— that's something Junho wasn't expecting, Chansung's grimace and the sadness in his eyes, and the pity— _god_ , Junho can't handle the pity. He very pointedly keeps his eyes on Chansung and doesn't look at the others.

"I didn't _ask_ you to do that," he says.

"But I still fucking did, didn't I," Chansung bites out

("Can't believe you stood up for me," Junho says, slouching forwards on his thighs. The park is empty and there's a broken lamp post flickering at the corner, Junho's eyes itching with it.

Chansung shrugs next to him, his hands shoved deeply into his jacket pockets. Junho can make out his profile through the corner of his eye, the way the flickering of light makes his skin both pale and rosy, the crisp winter air making his cheeks pink. "Did it 'cause Jinyoung can be a bit of an ass sometimes and your song is _great_ ," he says, and nudges Junho lightly. He smiles, still staring out into the park and the trees and midnight falling upon them. "And because I love you."

Junho bites his lip around a smile. "Can't believe you did that one, either."

Chansung laughs deeply, like he always does when he thinks Junho's dense, "Still did, didn't I?"),

and he sounds so tired it makes Junho want to run away all over again, pack his stuff and take the next flight to— to Antarctica or somewhere remote like that. Something tells him even if he did so they'd find their way around, they'd _find him_ , and Junho just—

"Fuck you," he says, slowly and quietly and straight into Chansung's eyes.

Someone shifts behind him, the rustle of feet on the carpet and jumpers against the shelf in the wall, but Junho doesn't care who, he's only got eyes for Chansung, impossible and beautiful Chansung. He's shaking, just like he did before he blacked out on Nichkhun, and maybe he's going to black out again, who knows, he hopes he does.

"You don't get to fucking judge me— not after all these _years—_  and especially not in my fucking _home_ . You have no fucking _right_."

Chansung stares back at him, his eyes wide and his mouth a thin line, and it's like they're sixteen all over again and Junho can distantly hear the _snap_ of cameras and bright flashes burning at the back of his eyes.

It's fucking hilarious because even after _all_ this time, they're still scared shitless.

 

-

 

They eat take-out four out of five days until Nichkhun decides he's fed up of plastic containers.

As far as Junho knows they're all sharing the guest room, but when he meets with Nichkhun for late breakfast while the rest of them are out jogging or whatever, Nichkhun tells him Wooyoung has taken the floor in the living room and Taecyeon the couch. Minjun's brother lives a few minutes away (which Junho finds quite funny, all things considered) and it leaves pretty much Nichkhun and Chansung sharing the guest bed.

They don't see each other much, though, Chansung and Junho. Junho prefers the loneliness of his room and his dark curtains and Chansung seems to have the same fondness for the guest room, only coming out for food, and whenever Minjun decides they _must_ all sit in front of the TV and watch a movie.

Junho still drinks every night, pretends to crawl into bed and pretends to sleep through it all, through their chatter and laughter and banter, just like in the old days. Except back in the old days he had Chansung next to him, giggling madly about whatever it was that made Chansung giggle like that (everything, in Junho's experience, especially tickles) and they spent hours trying to figure out who'd pranked who that time around instead of sleeping.

He doesn't dwell on it much, though. Instead, he listens to them, to Taecyeon singing along TV commercials and Nichkhun and Wooyoung talking softly in the kitchen, sometimes while they do the dishes (Nichkhun's broken three of the dozen of plates Minhye'd bought for Junho when he first moved in) and sometimes while they attempt to cook, and sometimes he can hear Minjun calling out his goodbyes and whacking someone over the head. Junho can barely make out Chansung in the middle of them, though. He's never sure of where Chansung is, and Junho's flat isn't necessarily large so there aren't really that many places Chansung can hide in unless he's found a way to fit himself in the dryer— and even if he has Junho would still be able to catch it.

He's fresh out of the shower and pulling on his pants when there's a knock on his door, and it opens just as he's zipping up and popping the button in place. Nichkhun blinks blearily at him from behind the door, his hair disheveled. "Hey, uh. Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you."

Shaking his head, Junho reaches over for his t-shirt and slips it over his head. "No, it's okay. What it is?"

"Well, I'm done with take-out," Nichkhun answers, and steps into Junho's room, the door still open behind him. "I was thinking perhaps it'd be nice to eat properly. Home-made food and all. I saw a market a few blocks down on my way from the airport, maybe we could check it out."

"Right," Junho says. He stands in the middle of his room and stares back at Nichkhun, who's tilting his face to the side and looking at Junho like he's grown a third eye. Junho blinks, "Oh, you mean _now_. Yeah, okay, let's go."

Considering five of them are here as tourists, they don't do tourist stuff. In fact, they don't even go out unless it's to get food or to pick Minjun up from his brother's place— and even like that Junho never really tags along. It's weird still, because Junho hasn't really made any conscious effort to hang out with them in the past few days, it's like he doesn't fit in, like he's the odd man out, and just— how fucking hilarious is that.

They end up driving (actually, that task falls on Nichkhun's shoulders) to the market a few blocks from Junho's building, just the both of them, in order to get some supplies for dinner. Junho's never really done groceries shopping here; in fact, he's never done groceries shopping _at all_ ; he's had it all delivered to the flat since he rented it.

He's a bit lost, to say the least. And a lot sober. In fact, he's a bit too sober for this.

Nichkhun walks along the isles and checks everything out, from tomatoes to lemons to spinach and, occasionally, he asks about meat and fish. Junho follows close behind and feels useless, like he's only been dragged out because he was the only one available and left behind. Which maybe he was, but that does nothing to make him feel better. He stuffs his hands in his jumper's pockets wishing he'd brought a thicker coat, and hovers behind Nichkhun as he asks in perfect English how much everything is and whether the lettuce is hydroponic or not.

Nichkhun stops by a large stack of potatoes after another round and turns to Junho. "So, what'd you like to eat?" he asks, worrying the inside of his lip with his teeth.

"I, uh, dunno, I mean. Are you the one cooking?" he looks at Nichkhun and feels a bit dumb for having asked, honestly, because why other reason would Nichkhun have to go to the market if he didn't plan to cook, right?

Fuck, way too sober.

"I was thinking maybe we could make a stew. Since it's winter and stews are made in winter?" Nichkhun turns it into a question at the end there, like he's not so sure of it himself. He turns back towards the potatoes, eyeing them curiously. Junho eyes Nichkhun curiously instead. "With lots of potatoes," Nichkhun adds in a second later.

"Right," Junho nods. "Sure, that sounds good. We should probably get carrots and, uh. What else goes in a stew?"

That seems to be the right question right there and they walk around aimlessly through every stand and buy everything they dim worthy of a stew, never mind if it's culinary correct or not. Nichkhun jokes a few times about how they could check google on any of their phones, or even call Wooyoung since he knows a bit more about cooking than both of them combined, but they don't. This is— it's fun, actually.

Being dumb and careless and laughing about eggplants and bean sprouts. This is the first time in a long while Junho's felt this light without having raided half a bar minutes earlier, and it feels nice, the crisp winter cold pinching at his cheeks and the snow clinging to his lashes when they walk out of the market with at least six bags each.

Nichkhun nudges him lightly while on their way to the car. "So, this was fun, right?"

"Yeah," Junho exhales, his breath foggy and his cheeks cramping from the cold when he tries a smile. "Yeah, it was. Especially when the lady selling eggs made a move on you. Wish I had my camera on me."

"Oh, shut up," Nichkhun chuckles, burying his face in his too wide, too thick scarf.

They stay silent for a while but Junho can feel it, can feel Nichkhun's words bubbling low in his gut just waiting to come out.

Junho thinks perhaps they've been there ever since he showed up at Junho's doorstep and none of them knew how to get them out and buried them with cheap wine and take-out. When Junho unlocks the trunk and carefully starts stocking the bags in a neat row, Nichkhun clears his throat, low and quiet but sharp in between them.

"Can I ask you something?"

Junho holds his hands out for the bags Nichkhun is holding. "Of course," he says. It comes out raspy and a bit too rushed, like he's breathless.

"Have you ever— uhm. Look, I'm not, like, trying to _pry_. But, I was just—" Nichkhun heaves a great sigh, like he's looking for words that won't scare Junho off, like he's some sort of scared child at the dentist's office and his name is up next. He places the bags carefully next to the row he'd already made and takes this as his excuse to not look up at Nichkhun when he continues, "I was wondering if you've ever, like. Talked to someone. About the drinking."

"Why should I'd done that?" comes the reply, a bit too soon and a bit too defensively, Junho's hands tightening on the handles of what looks like the bag containing noodle cups. He doesn't remember buying those. "You know, the first thing Wooyoung said was you weren't here for an intervention."

He's still bent over with his upper body almost inside the trunk of the car and Nichkhun is standing close next to him, and it's surreal, how they're having this conversation in the parking lot of a market Junho's never been to. And it's not like he _doesn't_ want to have this conversation, either, it's just. Maybe he's not ready to face everything it _means_ , even if he's quite aware of it all.

"It's _not_ an intervention, Junho. I'm just. I'm worried. We all are. But, like, we're not going to tell you what to do, okay? We don't want you to do it because of us, we want you to just. Want to do it. For yourself."

He knows Nichkhun means well, too, knows they all do, even Chansung. But acknowledging it is painful, the most painful side of it all, perhaps, because he _knows_ what he has to do but is too much of a coward to do it. Admitting you have a problem is the easiest part, dealing with it falls into a different category completely and Junho is not ready to face that one just yet.

"We should get going," is all Junho can think of saying. He locks the trunk and hands the keys to Nichkhun, and shakes his head when Nichkhun opens his mouth to say— god knows what, Junho isn't necessarily keen on finding out what, precisely.

"Don't," he says. "I know you mean well— know all of you do, but. But it's not that easy. So, just. Don't."

"It's not gonna get easier," Nichkhun stresses. His eyes are bright and dark, Junho's gut clenching painfully under the _strength_ of them.

"It's starting to come off as an intervention," Junho says slowly.

Nichkhun's eyes are sharp, his jaw strained.

"Do you know he blames himself? For it? Junho—" he takes a deep breath and Junho does, too, because this is _low,_ so fucking _low_ of Nichkhun. "He thinks you took up drinking when whatever it is happened between you went to shit. Chansung thinks this whole thing is his fault."

Junho shakes his head, his eyes shut tightly and his nails digging half-moons into his palms. Fucking _fuck_ , this is _not_ where their conversation was supposed to carry on, this is— no, this is not something Junho can _do_ , conscious or not. He wants to snap at Nichkhun, tell him to mind his own fucking business for a change instead of meddling in other people's lives— _why_ can't he leave it the fuck _alone_ ; but he can't, can barely breathe and blink at the same time, let alone string words together and force them past his throat.

The parking lot is beginning to fill up and it takes Junho by surprise, how it must only be barely past noon and yet he wishes the day were almost over so he could sneak past the lot of them and drink himself to sleep. Or maybe he hasn't been as sneaky as he thought he was, by the look on Nichkhun's face.

"I'm gonna—" he starts, and backs away a few steps in the opposite direction— whatever direction it is, he doesn't care, as long as it takes him away from Nichkhun and this fucking parking-lot, he's taking it. "Need air," he finishes, and turns around, his feet clumsy and his lungs worse.

Nichkhun calls out his name but Junho doesn't go back on his steps, he just keeps on walking, the city loud and cold around him, completely unassuming.

  
  


He's dragging himself up a street leading to his neighborhood when it starts to rain; big, cold drops that make everything around him grayer and blurry. It washes over everything and everyone without so much as a warning, and Junho's only wearing a thick jumper and a pair of jeans and trainers and it's so not ideal he wants to just sit under a random building's staircase and _cry_ until it stops.

He doesn't, though, he's cold and hungry and his feet hurt and he wants to go home.

He's very well on his way to soaked to the bone by the time he reaches the entry of his building, the bottom of the stairs wet and the railings glinting with mist. It's an old building, the kind that has only four floors and looks like a drive-in motel. A wooden staircase splits the building in halves, and every door faces the street, with the railings all made of metal and wood, their surface chipped and unpolished. it's a pretty, old thing, Junho thinks. And it's home. Kind of.

He takes the stairs with his wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to his skin and the smell of rain and wet dirt that sticks to the skin at the back of his hands and neck. He's getting mud everywhere as he pushes the door open and his keys rattle rather loudly in the quietness that greets him.

And then a beat passes, the quietness breaking as Chansung comes running out of the kitchen with a loud, "Did you find him yet—? Oh."

Junho's heart somersaults in his chest, his ribcage aching, and Chansung stops himself in the middle of the living room, just in front of the TV, his lips still parted in the aftermath of his startled 'Oh' and _fuck_ , it's painful; looking at him and his disheveled hair and gray t-shirt stretched over his shoulders is so fucking painful Junho could cry. He doesn't, though, because Chansung's eyes are shot open and his hands are balled into fists when he swallows, and Junho knows him well enough to understand.

"They're out looking for me?" he asks, his hands sweaty and still wet from rain.

Chansung nods, looking at the door behind Junho and then back at him. His brow is furrowed and Junho wants nothing better than to smooth it out with his fingers, maybe kiss his forehead as well.

"Yeah, Nichkhun and Wooyoung, at least. Minjun's at his brother's and Taecyeon has been gone all day. Why haven't you answered your phone?"

"I didn't take it with me," Junho says, and he sounds breathless, his chest so impossibly tight and his brain fuzzy he barely registers his hands are moving until he struggles off his jumper and drops it to the ground with a wet sound.

Chansung is staring at him from across the living room, his brow still furrowed and his cheeks barely tinged pink, "Well, that was a rather poor move of you. Everyone's been worried sick."

Junho doesn't even dare to ask, _Were you worried too?_ He'd rather not pick up a fight with Chansung right now, considering there'll be no witnesses in case Chansung decides to, like, throw a lamp at him.

"I didn't mean to, I just. I needed— I needed to get some air."

Junho toes his shoes off without looking up, leaves them dripping at the entry mat and makes a mental note to come back and pick them up later, put them in the dryer or something, same with his jumper. His pants are wet, too, and they cling uncomfortably to his hips but Chansung's still _there_ , expectant and sullen (he curses the day he learned about every expression Chansung could have on his face) and Junho has dignity— a little, but he's got it, and he is going to protect it.

"I'm going to…" he waves a hand that hopes can get the _Going to change out of my wet clothes because it sucks to be all wet like this and also because if I stay here and you stay there shit will get nasty_ across, his eyes shifting from Chansung's face to the hall he's standing in front of.

Chansung clears his throat and heads back to the kitchen, his shoulders hunched and tense. "Right. I'm gonna call them so they know you're here."

"You do that, yeah," Junho says quietly, and pads his way towards his room, his clothes squelching with every step and sway he makes.

H crosses the hall as fast as he can, picking up the sound of Chansung's voice on the phone and making out words like _here, okay,_ and _soaked_ just as he closes his door quietly behind him. He stands there for a few minutes, just staring out into nothing, and he just.

He starts thinking. And that's a problem. Because up until now, he hasn't really put much thought into it, not as much as he should have, anyways.

Chansung is only like, thirty feet away from him right now, has been for the past few days and Junho - well, Junho's been _aware_ of it, but just not _this_ aware of it, not while he's dripping wet and about to get naked, and yeah, wrong train of thought, abort, abort, abort _now_.

That's the thing, probably. Junho hasn't been with anyone— physically, romantically, whatever— in almost a year and a half. So of course, _of course_ Chansung and his— his impossibleness (is that even a word, Junho doesn't know but it _should be_ ) are going to make Junho slip over the edge, he isn't made of steel, for fuck's sake.

But it's weird too, you see, because even though they've been under the same roof for almost a week now, Junho hasn't really thought about Chansung in _that_ way until now. Now being the two of them alone in Junho's flat and the TV and the noises in the kitchen, that can only mean Chansung's either attempting to cook or covering up a murder, as background.

He shakes his head in order to clear it a little— which is weird since he's as sober as it gets, and isn't that just peachy— and pads towards the bathroom, his thumbs making little work of his button and zipper, and when he turns on the light, he shimmies his hips and lets his pants pool at his feet, heavy and wet and smelling like the wet grass from the park he sat at all afternoon.

(And he didn't even get that far away from the market's parking lot, at that; he found a small park with only one decent bench three blocks down and he'd hoped to all heavens Nichkhun wouldn't drive by and find him there, his arms around his knees and the stench of weed hanging stale around him the darker it got.)  

He steps out of the bathroom about an hour later, his skin blotchy from all the unnecessary scrubbing, his fingertips wrinkled from being under the spray for so long and his cheeks flaming with shame after having jerked off two fucking— frustrating— times. But it's not that big of a deal. He's a grown man and he gets hard in the shower. No need to cry over it, or whatever. Not even if he may have bit off Chansung's name when he came. Nope.

God, he's such a pathetic case.

He pulls on a pair of sweatpants over his boxers and a wool sweater over his head. It's a bit scratchy on his skin but it'll make do, he hasn't got any more clean clothes and it's freezing as fuck and the sound of the rain against the window panes makes everything even colder for some reason. He looks around his room lazily, at his closet, with its doors open and the shelves in it opened haphazardly, Junho's clothes hanging off them in weird patterns and amounts, so ridiculous he wonders what the fuck he's been up to these past few days.

Drinking, mostly. And being a complete douchebag by avoiding five of the closest people he's got. Right.

There are t-shirts strewn across the floor of it, too, and Junho has half a mind to actually organize his clothes in cleans and to-wash before dropping face first on his bed possibly after a big glass of vodka, when there's a loud beep from his phone. When he checks it, it's a text from Nichkhun,

 _From: Nichkhun – Today at 19:37  
_ _glad ur ok wooyoung wants bibimbap where do i find this shit in ny also driving under the rain isn't as dangerous as i thought it'd be tho it does bring some bad memories huh also i'm sorry abt earlier wooyoung has already smacked me thrice_

Junho narrows his eyes at his phone, _at Nichkhun_ , and types back quickly. _You could probably make it here you assholes don't think I don't know what you're trying to do get your asses back here before he kills me or something or even worse I kill him_.

He doesn't send it, though, and his thumb hovers over the _Send_ option for about five minutes before he deletes the whole thing and types again.

 _To: Nichkhun – Today at 19:44  
_ _try west 26th. drive safe, leave my car intact. tell wooyoung he's still the boss in the relationship._

There's no reply from Nichkhun and Junho sits at the edge of his bed for a long while, his knees awkward on the footer's wooden edge and his toes barely poking at the carpet, and outside his room, he can hear Chansung up and about in the kitchen, pots tingling against each other, and Junho's stomach makes a loud noise at that.

He hasn't eaten anything all day, and he probably should; he can hear his mother nagging at him to keep his three meals all the way from Seoul, and it's not pretty. With that thought in mind, he's off to the door, and he's glad it only creaks slightly as he pulls it open and then closed behind him.

The TV is still on when he reaches the hall and the kitchen's lights are on, and Chansung's there, with his back to the door and Junho, and his phone pressed to his ear, hip cocked against the counter.

"—fifteen minutes." Chansung's voice is quiet and his shoulders are hunched and Junho just stands there, at the door, and watches him. "Alright, thanks. Yeah, not sure when but it'd be great if—yes. Oh? Oh, okay, sure. Yeah, I don't mind. Thanks a lot, though, and I'm sorry about the—yeah."

There's a moment in between Chansung turning around and hanging up on whoever was on the other line, when Junho considers jumping off the window, but instead he backs into the hall as fast as his feet can carry him without looking up from the floor, his cheeks flaming and his teeth itching from how tight his jaw is. If Chansung notices, Junho can't tell.

He's not sure if he wants to, at that.

It's weird for Junho to hover awkwardly in the middle of his own living room, his fingers curling and uncurling themselves on the sleeves of his sweater, but this is what his life has come down to in the past few days. He's still sober and he was supposed to have dealt with that long ago; he was supposed to be as gone as it gets by now.

Chansung walks out of the kitchen and past Junho, and— as usual— it's like he pretends Junho isn't there at all. He just spares him few glances, like Junho isn't sitting across from him at the table, or isn't sharing the large couch on the living room and Junho's half thankful and half annoyed at this. After their discussion on that first day (or like, third, whatever, Junho refuses to take the days he blacked out into account) they haven't even shared a word.

And that's rich, really, Chansung ignoring him like this and then pretending to _care_ and to be upset over what Junho does, and Junho _hates_ it, hates how Chansung manages to get under his skin and burn him from the inside out without even doing _anything_ and especially after so long.

The worst thing, though, is Junho can't hold it against Chansung as much as he'd really fucking wish to.

He wants nothing better than to remind him this is Junho's place and that he should feel grateful Junho didn't kick him out as soon as they saw each other, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a seat on the couch in front of the TV (next to Wooyoung's clean laundry, apparently, if the post-it on top of it with _wooyoung's clean shit — stay off, ok taecyeon, i know where you sleep_ is anything to go by), and reaches for the remote.

As his eyes stray to the left, he catches sight of a couple of bags, neatly tucked against the side of the couch closest to the door, a scarf and a jacket thrown haphazardly over them, and it's Chansung's jacket, Junho saw him wearing it a few days ago when the lot of them came back from shopping. Junho takes a few seconds to just _stare_ at it before turning his eyes back to the TV; and somehow he's aware of Chansung's presence hovering near the door, and it all makes sense, kind of, and that's why Junho dares to say,

"You're leaving."

His voice sounds foreign to his ears, like he's not really there at all and Chansung isn't sitting down at the couch's armrest and they're not sharing more air than they have in the last five years. Junho tries not to think about that, about how long it's been, about how much of it he spent being a dick for no particular reason other than he felt like it when drunk.

Junho decides to stop thinking altogether. Less painful that way.

"Yeah, actually, no," is what Chansung says. "Got all my stuff packed and ready, though, and then— Well, you went missing."

Maybe it's a dream, Junho tells himself. Maybe this isn't really happening and he's actually gone on tequila or whatever and _this isn't happening_ and Junho's insides aren't a supernova trying to burst with the intensity of a thousand and one suns. Maybe. He wants to say _Well, go on, then, don't let me keep you_ , but he won't mean it.

"Thought you'd ran away on us again." Chansung's voice is quiet, like he'd rather not have said that, and Junho wishes he really hadn't. "Wooyoung was pissed at Nichkhun, thought he'd scared you off or something."

Junho's heart does this odd thing where it stops beating just to thump its way up his throat and it stays there, clawing at the skin until it feels raw. He can't swallow past the lump lodged in there, and he grips the remote tighter in his fist, his other hand curling around his knee and just _digging in_. He keeps his eyes on the TV, unblinking, because if he looks away, at anything besides the screen, he might just as well curl over and throw up all over the carpet. It's an awful thought and he sort of wants to wrinkle his nose at it, but his face is stuck too, his eyes wide and his lips pulled tight.

"Have you had anything to drink at all today?"

There's a beat. "Nope," Junho answers, and he even manages a dry smile. "I'm as sober as it gets, sadly."

He stands up on autopilot when Chansung doesn't say anything, his knees shaking slightly when his full weight is set on them, wishing his room were closer so he could just take one step and drop face first on the bed and hide his head under the pillows. Junho isn't hungry anymore, he's pretty sure he'd throw up if he so much as had a plate in front of him.

He blames it on Chansung, really. Chansung with his stupid eyes and his stupid hair and his stupid voice and his stupid hands that Junho can see whenever they eat and Chansung steals food off everyone's plate but not Junho's. Chansung and his stupid smile, forced and tight, whenever Wooyoung dabs a joke at their past to lighten up the mood during dinner. Chansung who seems to choke around his tongue whenever Junho so much as opens his mouth to say something on whatever they're talking about (except Junho knows what Chansung's face looks like when he's _choking_ , his eyes watery and his lips stretched— and god, that's one train of thought Junho should not have anymore). Chansung who looks at him with a mix of anger and pity and heartbreak that breaks Junho into billions of little pieces as well.

He crawls under the covers and just _lies_ there, feeling lost and like he's been hit, and isn't that just fucking _pathetic—_ Chansung's only spared him about ten words and here Junho is, punched and broken and it's not fair, this shouldn't happen anymore, Junho shouldn't have let it—

There's a knock on his door.

Junho doesn't say anything, he barely breathes, can hardly _move_ under his heavy blankets. He prays it's Wooyoung standing on the other side, or even Taecyeon who Junho hasn't really talked to ever since that first awkward half-hug in the middle of the hall, but his gut is telling him otherwise, his fingertips are itching and Junho _knows_ , is certain it's Chansung as much as he's certain it's still raining outside.

He doesn't move, though.

There's a knock again, this time followed by a, "Junho?"

Chansung's voice is clipped and muffled by the wood and the rain and Junho can't swallow past his heart lodged at the back of his mouth.

"Yeah," he croaks, voice raw, and clears his throat, coughs a little as he sits up and tightens his fists on the duvet, "yeah, come in."

It's a bad idea, possibly one of the worst ideas Junho's had in the last twenty four hours. This is— this is mined ground, letting Chansung into his room. Junho should already know better than this, should have learned from that first time, but. But he's always been a bit slow, especially when sober. And mostly when it comes to Chansung.

Chansung pushes the door open slowly, as if afraid, and Junho finds it funny, the way Chansung's brow is still furrowed lightly and his fingers' grip on the handle is tight enough to make his knuckles white.

"Hey," he says, and he sounds and _looks_ so _young_ , so fucking and impossibly young Junho aches for him, with every bit of muscle and bone in his body that still remembers how to _want_ something. "Khun made a lot of food. You hungry?"

Junho's eyes can't get any wider. It'd be physically impossible and he'd probably have to run to the emergency room if his eyes get any bigger than this. Or maybe he slipped on the road under the rain and hit his head and this is all a dream. Because there's no way, _no way_ , Chansung just asked Junho if he's hungry and implied they could eat, like, together, maybe.

Perhaps Junho's thinking a bit too ahead of himself here. Perhaps Chansung means _Nichkhun cooked a lot and there's food in the kitchen so go and eat and choke, please_. It's a possibility. Junho should better not put it past him.

Right, and he has to answer, too.

"Sure, uh, I'll heat it up later—"

Chansung rolls his eyes, he _does_ and Junho isn't making it up. "It's already warm. Come on, I'm hungry, too."

  
  


They end up having dinner in the living room, Junho in the love-seat with a bowl of (too salty) beef stew and Chansung in the large one with a bowl of his own. There's a Sandra Bullock marathon of sorts on TV and it's _Miss Congeniality_ on the screen and Junho feels uneasy, like something's odd and out of place— everything, mostly.

Because, yeah, all of it is pretty fucking surreal. Awkwardly surreal, at that.

Honestly, Junho could use a drink. But he's a bit scared of even chewing the wrong way.

"Well, this is fucked up," Chansung mutters after a while of silent chewing, and drops his plate on the coffee table. Junho's about to ask what the fuck did he even do but Chansung beats him to it, "I can feel you brooding all the way here, for fuck's sake."

Junho blinks at him. "You swear a lot."

And, yeah, okay, maybe he didn't actually mean to throw it so lightly, so casually, like they're good friends sharing a meal (because they're _not_ , Junho doesn't think they are), but it just slipped out, and his brain-to-mouth filter has always been fucked up, anyway.

Chansung snorts, but it doesn't sound as nasty as it did once. "Blame it on Minjun."

He sighs— long and tired, a bit of defeat on the side, and Junho curses the day he got to _know_ Chansung this well— and stands, Junho following the curve of his shoulders as he turns around and heads for the kitchen without another word. Junho is left staring after him, and when Chansung comes back, he's got a bottle of soju and two glasses and Junho just. He just gapes. A lot. Like a fish out of water.

Junho reaches for his own thigh as Chansung pours drinks, and pinches, hard. He winces and lets out a sharp breath and yeah, most definitely not dreaming. Hallucinating, then. Yes, he's definitely hallucinating because there's no way— _no way_ Chansung's willingly sitting next to him and offering half a glass of soju to him.

No way.

"Well, are you gonna take it or not?" Chansung's eyebrows are raised.

No way. "Yeah. I mean, yes, of course." Junho takes the glass as if he were taking something highly radioactive or disgusting, which, _hah_. "Thanks."

He doesn't ask why, doesn't even blink as Chansung knocks down his half in one go.

"I met this guy when I was doing service," he starts, and Junho isn't ready for this, for _conversation_ , or for whatever this is, he doesn't think he ever will. Chansung's leaning forward on his thighs, both his hands still cupping his glass and his eyes are set on the screen. Junho wants to tell him not to, not to say _anything_ , but his tongue is heavy and the stew is trying to claw its way up and, fuck, just what the fuck is happening.

On screen, Sandra Bullock is kneeing Benjamin Bratt in the balls, and Junho would snort if his lungs would let him because he's getting his own balls kicked as well. By, like, fate or karma or one of those ugly bitches.

"His dad was a war veteran, and so was his father before him." Chansung's smiling ruefully, like he'd rather not talk about it and he probably shouldn't, unless he wants Junho to have a seizure. "He was no older than twenty, said he'd grown up listening to war stories, and that he was doing it to prove himself, or some shit. Dunno, he always seemed so… off."

Junho just... he just sits there. He sits there with a glass in his hands and a bowl in his lap and his heart in his throat. _Bitches_ , he thinks.

"We stayed in touch after we were discharged. Met up a couple of times, got a few drinks. He sorta drank more than I did, all the time, said it made his head clearer because he didn't know if he could make it out here when all he wanted was to be back in there," Chansung continues, and this time he looks up and it's like the air is being punched out of Junho— he looks so stern and so young and Junho can't handle it, can't handle just how _impossible_ he looks, how far and yet so close they are and how much _time_ sits heavy and dreadful between them.

Junho swallows thickly, his fingers tightening around the glass of soju (that he didn't even know he owned in the first place). He holds Chansung's gaze and wills himself to hold it for as long as it takes.

" _War changes you_ , is what he always said. and I was like, _what the fuck is he even talking about, he wasn't even sent to war_ , but I think I get him." Chansung looks down at his glass, his thumb tracing the rim as he says, voice low, "Do you think we all went to war, too? Back then, I mean?"

Junho shuts his eyes tightly, shakes his head once. He doesn't say anything, though, just sits there, rigid against the backrest of the single couch, fingers tight to the point of pain and heart beating so loud in his ears it's like his head is going to split in half. He's not going to cry, he's not going to throw up, and he's not going to stop breathing. He doesn't know what to say— or if he's supposed to say anything— and it feels like too much, like this is all too much and like the best response is to just up and leave.

When he opens his eyes, Chansung is looking at him, his eyes searching and his jaw tense.

"I think it changed us," Chansung says. "I think _we_ changed us."

Junho looks away, knocks down his drink and lets the burn reach his fingertips as he stands up. God, he's _so_ tired.

Chansung doesn't stop him on his way to the kitchen, doesn't even get up from the couch as Junho walks back into the hall and stands there for what feels like hours, a bottle of whiskey held close to his stomach, lost and scared— always so fucking scared— and like he's walking around broken glass. They're always walking around broken glass when it comes to each other, just how pathetic is that.

He wants nothing better than to run into his room, but.

"It wasn't your fault," he manages to say. His voice might get lost in between the sound of the rain and the TV, but Junho _has_ to get it out, has to say it before it's too late, and somehow Junho's always been a little too late and a little too stupid when it's come to Chansung.

"It wasn't your fault," he repeats, louder, and watches as Chansung's jaw loosens, relaxes, "The drinking— it wasn't your fault. Isn't. It's not on you, Chansung. Okay?"

Junho thinks he sees Chansung nod his head slightly but he doesn't stick around to make sure.

 

-

 

The thing is, though, Junho doesn't touch it, the whiskey. He doesn't touch it that night, or the next one, or the one after. (He stares at it a lot, though, stares as it stands next to his alarm clock, going staler as hours go by since it's been uncapped, and can't bring himself to move.)

Junho looks up at the ceiling, trying to find out whether he can burn holes through it with his eyes, when he hears the front door open and Nichkhun's hurried voice saying, "Fuck, it's freezing, who the fuck thought going for a run was a good idea, fuck y'all."

More voices follow his, Wooyoung greeting them with a laugh and Taecyeon answering with a "Quiet, princess, you're gonna wake up the neighbors with all that dirty talking, you kiss your huswife with that mouth?" that makes Junho laugh despite himself. It's a quiet peel of laughter, and yet it's like knocking scotch without any ice, it burns and settles and feels heavy on Junho's empty stomach even when he takes deep breaths to ease the punch.

Taecyeon calls out a goodnight and says he's going to take the shower first, Nichkhun says he's too cold to even think of getting nowhere near water no matter if it's warm or not (Junho can _hear_ Wooyoung wrinkling his nose at him) and then Chansung's laughing loudly, unattained and more _himself_ than Junho's heard him in the past week.

Amazing how Junho still _knows_ him, all of them, even if he spends twenty four hours a day pretending he doesn't.

He tilts his face and looks at the bottle again, almost expecting it to come closer, but it doesn't budge— and Junho, well, he won't either. He's tired, is the thing. Tired of running and tired of doing nothing and tired of pretending and tired of avoiding the unavoidable— and so, _so_ tired of being alone.

He could do this once— he _did_ it, could let go of it for mom's sake— maybe this time he can do it, too. Maybe. Maybe he needs to think about her again, about how difficult every night was, the way she cried thinking they couldn't hear it. Maybe, Junho thinks, if he focuses in her pain and not his, he can make _it all_ go away.

(A small part of his brain whispers, _It won't go away unless you want it to_ , and it makes Junho doubt, guilty, because another small part of him is not sure whether making it go away will make it alright by default. He's tired of thinking, too, god.)   

 _Fuck_ , he breathes, and buries his face in the pillow, holding his breath until his lungs and throat burn and all he can hear in his head is his heart thumping all the way up to his ears.

 

-

 

On the day of his birthday, Junho wakes up to faint moonlight sipping in through the curtains. It's tuesday already, can't be more than three am and the flat is quiet, eerily quiet even for the bunch of them. (There's something quite surprising at how Junho's been getting used to them being noisy as fuck at any given hour by now, though, but he tries not to think too much of it.)

He pulls the comforter tighter around his shoulders and sits up cross legged on the bed, the room around him dipped in a haze of pale red thanks to the set of curtains up on the windows. It reminds him a bit of when he slept in the couch at Minhye's dorm room, reminds him of her with a pang of guilt because he hasn't called her in weeks, and the last she heard of him was a hasty text reply.

He's such a shitty excuse for a brother, to be honest.

He reaches for his phone as he tries to do the math and figure out what time it is for her— time-zones are the worst— and frowns when he realizes it's around one am there and if he ever dare to wake her up at this hour she'd find a way to murder him and make it look like an accident— all the way from there and probably still in her pajamas. He drops his phone and scoots to the edge of the bed, his feet dropping on the carpet with a soft thud.

And that's when his phone goes off and Minhye's name flashes across the screen.

How convenient, really.

"Hey," he says softly, pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear as he eases back under the covers. There's no use in getting up, anyways, might as well stay warm.

"Happy birthday, little brother of mine," she says, and how she can sound both fond and irritated at the same time is something Junho'll never understand.

"Why thanks, you're so kind for remembering," Junho chuckles, still in a hushed tone, and turns to lie on his back. "How are you? Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Haven't heard because you haven't called," she sighs and then says, "but I don't hold it against you, having forgotten about me. I bet you're quite… entertained over there."

Junho shrugs and makes a non-committal sound before replying. "It's been… yeah, it's been a bit hectic around here." Minhye only hums in reply and Junho continues, "It's like, dunno. It's all a bit weird still."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"Don't know yet," Junho answers. He runs his hand over his face, "We don't even talk much."

"Whose fault is that?" It doesn't sound reproachful.

"Don't know yet, either," Junho sighs, and Minhye mumbles,

"What _do_ you know, then?"

Junho wrinkles his nose. "We've all changed a lot."

There's a pause there, and Junho can sense her weighing her words. "How do you know you've changed if you barely talk?"

Junho closes his eyes. "I hate it when you make sense."

"I know," Minhye says.

They drop the subject, though, and Junho is thankful. They talk about work and their parents, talk about the weather in Canada and the weather in New York and how cold it must be in Seoul, about snow and rain and ice-skating, which she did a few days ago on a date. He doesn't ask her about the dating and she doesn't ask about the guys again and not before long she's calling goodbye, saying she has to get up early for work and he's keeping her away from her beauty sleep.

Before she hangs up, though, Junho asks, out of the blue, "Hey, Minhye, can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can. I'm surprised you're asking for permission, actually."

Junho half smiles at the ceiling and clears his throat. "Do you— Do you think I could, like. Stop drinking, just. Just by _wishing_ I stopped?"

She takes her time to reply and Junho holds his breath through it. "No," she says, and Junho's heart thuds against his rib-cage once. "Wishing is not enough, Junho. You gotta _want_ to do it. Do you wanna do it?"

It feels like a bucket of cold water, the question. He's slept for thirteen hours straight just now, and thinks of how he hasn't slept this much in, like, _years_ , thinks maybe it's part of the whole 'Let's try not to drink so much today' plan he's been working on carefully for the past week, just to test the waters. He drinks a glass and a glass only of wine with dinner and if they notice, they don't say anything, and Junho is too preoccupied biting on the inside of his cheek to still himself and stop the fucking itching at his fingertips to notice what happens around him— but he wants it. He wants it almost as bad as he doesn't and he's conflicted, tired and confused, but he wants it, needs it to stop.

"Yeah." Junho exhales slowly, "Yeah, I do."

After he hangs up with Minhye, he calls his mom.

She's surprised, asks why is he awake and he shakes his head even though she won't see it, and for a minute they just hang there, silent and confused; Junho doesn't know why he's called but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the moment, considering she'd be asleep by the time he'd supposed to be up.

"Happy birthday, dear," she says after a while.

Junho smiles and rolls on his side, his cheek warmed by the pillow, his arm hovering awkwardly close while holding his phone. "Thanks, mom," he sighs.

"How are you?" she asks, and he can hear the clattering of pots in the background. "Are you doing well?"

Junho wants to cry there, curled up under his blankets to the sound of her soft voice through the tiny speaker of his phone. He wants to tell her so much, wants to tell her he's tired of this, all of this, of the drinking and the _doing nothing_ , but his throat is closed and she seems to get it, that he just _can't speak_ , so he listens to her as she talks about whatever she's cooking, something with beef and lamb and vegetables.

"Are you falling asleep on me, young man?" she asks after a while.

There's a question hanging in the air, Junho's sure of it, but he can't remember what it was. They were talking about his dad, though, and Junho'd spaced off a bit when she said something about them getting together for his grandma's birthday the weekend before that one.

"No, no, I'm here." He blinks tiredness away. "What did you ask me before?"

She tsks her tongue. It sounds ten times worse through the phone. She's silent for a couple of seconds and when she speaks again, even through the tiny speaker, Junho can feel her carefully picking at her words. "I asked what'd you like me to tell your dad when I see him."

"You see him?" he asks, a bit more awake.

"Well, of course I do, I'm not blind—"

"No," Junho hurries, "no, I mean. Like, on a daily basis. Face to face. Seeing him often. And stuff."

"Ah." She clears her throat, and it's weird how much it sounds like Minhye, and it makes him wonder who picked it out from who. "Well, after his last trip to the hospital we agreed I'd visit him every weekend to make sure he's doing alright." She sounds serious, Junho doesn't know what to make of it.

He raises an eyebrow. " _We_ agreed?"

"Well _I_ agreed, he just listened and nodded," she mutters under her breath and there's a loud clattering noise in her side. "Oh dear, I think I just burnt the food."

"Mom," Junho starts, and he sits up slowly, his voice teasing, "did talking about dad make you nervous?"

She laughs loudly at that, the sound echoing off the speaker, and Junho breaks into a chuckle of his own. "Have you been drinking, Lee Junho?"

It hits a raw nerve, the question. He knows she didn't actually mean to, knows she's only joking, but it still twists something in Junho, pushing deep around his lungs and throat to find something, anything, to cling to. He looks down to the blankets pooled around his knees and takes shallow breaths, his mother hanging in the back, still silent and probably expectant.

He doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until he lets it all out in a rush, "Actually— no. I'm. I think— I wanna stop."

Telling Minhye was _easy_ , telling his mother, not so much. He pokes at the wool blanket she'd sent for Christmas and swallows thickly. The back of his eyes itch but Junho _can_ do this, can go through with this, can get better. He's been doing fine and it's been a week and _he can do this_.

Her sigh cracks loudly against Junho's phone. "Oh, honey. I'm so, _so_ proud of you. Do you— Junho, your father's been— He's here— Do you— I mean— Do you wish to speak to him?"

Junho doesn't ask how long he's been there (Minhye'd mentioned him too, in passing, and when Junho'd asked why they'd forgiven him so easily, she'd just sighed, recited "Love is a bit like a roller coaster, dear brother, the puking bits included," and Junho'd let it at that because _yeah_ ), it doesn't matter. He breathes in and out, slow, shallow, tries to calm himself.

"Yeah—" his voice sounds broken, tired, and he _is_ , so tired of everything, so desperately broken beyond repair, "Yeah, I'd really like that."

Junho doesn't cry and judging by her voice neither does she. When his dad— fuck, his _dad—_ says hello, his voice sounds pained and clipped and Junho had missed it, had really missed it, all shit hitting the fan be damned. They don't say _sorry_ , _sorry I was such a shit father— Sorry I was such a shit son_ , it's like that's not important anymore, and it kind of isn't, not when his dad's saying something and his mom is laughing warmly in the background— and maybe they're back together and maybe they're not, but Junho doesn't care, _shouldn't_ care because what's _really_ important is _right_ _there_ , pressed to his ear and almost cradled against his face.

They talk, they talk about everything and anything, and they laugh, Junho laughs loud and sound, and his dad's voice is so soothing, just like his mother's is, warming Junho from the inside out, making his fingertips warm and his head buzz pleasantly.

"Did you really stop?" he asks after his dad's done telling a story about a horrid kimchi stew, a dog and, unsurprisingly, Minhye.

His dad sighs. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and soft. "Yeah— Yeah, I did. T'was hard, but I _did_. That's what matters, right?"

Junho nods, fist tight around his phone. He holds the end of the blanket with his unoccupied hand and brings it closer over his shoulders. "That's the only thing that matters," he breathes. "I— It's been a week." Junho pauses, takes in some air. "It's hard, some days, but— it's not like I miss it, you know. At least I can breathe now without feeling guilty about it?"

"I know you can make it, Junho," the clattering in the back stops, his mother calling out his dad's name for lunch and Junho smiles, smiles so wide it fucking hurts, even if his chest is tight and his skin is itching. "It'll be difficult at first, you gotta know that. But I know you can make it— you always do. Do it for you, do it because you want to. Okay?"

"Yeah, I know, dad, yes," he says.

His dad lets out a low, deep chuckle. "That's my boy."

Junho lies there until the alarm clock in his nightstand hits five am in bright red numbers, his mom telling him to eat well and "Say hello to everyone for me, tell Nichkhun he still owes me a badminton game," and when she hangs up, his dad calling goodbye in the background, Junho laughs, long and hard and louder than he's laughed all night, feels like he could touch the fucking sky if he so much as wished to.

He's in a haze, a buzz that beats any drunken party, and he's— he's happy, is the thing. Happiest he's been in a long while, and this time he doesn't feel dreadfulness at the back of his skull, or the weight of the alcohol and the sorrow crashing at the pit of his stomach. It's a brand new sensation and he decides right then and there that it's going to be a great fucking day, despite the weather outside.

He contemplates calling Minhye to let her know and share his happiness, but drops the thought when he remembers something about work in the morning and then he just lies there until his leg starts twitching with unspent energy at five am.

He could go for a run— _god_ , when was the last time he ran because he felt like it and not because it felt like the easiest way out— grab his coat and make it to Central Park or something, whatever to shake off the warm blankets— it's suffocating and he needs to be _out_ , needs air whipping at his cheeks and fog taking over his breath.

He reaches over for a sweater hanging off his closet as he walks to the door and cracks it open slowly, thankful Taecyeon took care of the nasty hinges in every door after his first night of fitful sleep. The hall is dipped in faint morning light, and Junho walks down slowly towards the door, stealing a quick glance to Wooyoung curled over the couch and Taecyeon star-fished all over the floor, three heavy blankets on top of him. Junho smiles at the sight, and tries not to feel too nostalgic.

He's about to step past the both of them when the bathroom door is pulled open, Chansung's bleary eyes staring right back at Junho.

"What are you doing up?" Junho asks at the same time Chansung says, "Are you going out?"

Junho would smile but his cheeks are sort of stuck in place.

Chansung closes the door behind him quietly and steps in Junho's direction. "You were laughing. Earlier, I mean," he hushes, and Junho thinks _Oh, right._ "Is everything— I mean— Were you okay?"

"Yeah, uh, I was talking to my parents. Sorry if I woke you."

"No, s'alright, I couldn't sleep anyway, don't worry."

They're speaking in hushed tones, Chansung stepping even closer as he does and Junho doesn't know if he should, like, just walk out on him, or walk out in general, so he's literally stuck there, and when Chansung stops, he's right in front of Junho, can't be more than two feet away. Wooyoung lets out a loud snore, and Junho jumps with it.

"You going out?" Chansung repeats himself.

Junho nods. "Just out to the balcony. Kinda need to get some air."

Chansung nods, and even with the pale light seeping in through the window, Junho catches the way he pulls his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it for what must be a loud heartbeat before he's asking, "Mind if I join you?"

And Junho should say no, should shrug it off and not make anything of it, but it's five am and adrenaline is taking over, his fingertips warming and his feet itching to move. He shakes his head— always the weak one— and turns on his feet towards the door, grabbing his coat from the rack after he's done slipping his shoes on. Chansung is close behind him, his clothes rustling as he crouches to look around for his shoes and then as he slips his coat on. Junho pointedly keeps his gaze on the floor and then the door's handle, and he lets out a shallow breath when he finally pulls the door open and crisp winter air greets him.

The parking lot in front of his building is fairly empty, only three cars parked and blurred under slushed snow. It's not a pretty sight, it's actually quite depressing, but it'll have to make do. Junho leans his elbows on the wooden railing and just stands there, breathing in and out and trying his hardest to ignore Chansung— it hardly works, and god knows that hasn't changed in the last ten years.

When Chansung stands next to him, barely few inches away, and leans into the railing as well, Junho doesn't move away.

"How are your parents?" he asks, and there's fog coming out of his mouth, and Junho really shouldn't be staring at it.

"They're okay," he says, "I think they're back together— I don't know. As long as they're happy, I guess."

Chansung hums, nodding. "That's what matters, isn't it."

"Suppose it is," Junho nods back, and then silence hangs between them, heavy and cold. Junho clasps his fingers tight around each other, his palms sweaty. It's started to rain again and everything smells like grass, grass and wet concrete, and a bit like Chansung from where they're standing so close.

Chansung nods again and Junho wonders if it's always going to be like this for them and if he actually wants it to change at all. And that's the breaking point, really, and maybe Minhye is right (she most likely is, the harpy) and love is a very weird, complicated thing. It hasn't— Junho hasn't really thought about it, though, whether he loves Chansung or not, if he still does, even after all these years.

There's a high probability Chansung's moved on, has forgotten all about their teenage tumble or whatever it all was and Junho can't do that to himself, can he? He can't just _hold on_ to something that's not really holding him back in return.

"I'm sorry," he says slowly, picking carefully at his words. This might be his only chance— or the only time he'll feel brave enough, take your pick. He doesn't turn to face Chansung but he can hear him shifting from one foot to another, his coat's fabric catching on the chipped wood. "About the other day— when we were in the kitchen. Sorry for snapping at you like that."

"It's okay," Chansung says quietly.

"No, it's not okay, come on," Junho sighs, and wets his lips before continuing, his fingers tightening around each other. "It was awful of me. I should've thanked you and I just— I just fucked it all up even worse, didn't i?"

That earns a chuckle out of Chansung and Junho's chest loosens up a bit. "You were right, though. I had no right. And I'm sorry, too, all the shit I said— I shouldn't have. Was not my place. I'm truly sorry. And, uh, about the other night, too."

Junho tilts his face towards him and Chansung is looking back expectantly, his cheeks pink from the cold and his lips bitten— Junho has to physically force himself to look away or things will get weird.

"Don't worry about it," Junho says quietly.

"Happy birthday, by the way," Chansung says, and turns to look out to the parking lot as well. When he wrinkles his nose at it, Junho doesn't hold it against him.

"Thanks," is all Junho says, and that seems to be it.

  
  


When they walk back into the flat, Chansung goes straight for the kitchen and says he'll start the coffee, and Junho nods, awkward, and follows down the hall on his way to his room so he can get his phone and dial the deli down the street for some breakfast. (It's a poor excuse, he knows, but the adrenaline is wearing off and he just— he needs time to breathe air that doesn't have little bits of Chansung in it.)

Just as he's about to walk into his room, he runs into Wooyoung walking out of the bathroom with his hair sticking up in odd directions and his flannel shirt rucked up over his belly as he scratches at his skin with a yawn. "Happy birthday, fuckface," he says, and Junho's eyes widen, "I was _sleeping_ when you decided to laugh like a howling hyena at four in the goddamn morning."

"Oh, shit, sorry," Junho says, and he smiles a bit when Wooyoung wraps his arms around him and squeezes. He's warm and smells like Junho's soap and it's hilarious, really, because it feels so _normal_ all of a sudden. "Thanks, too, I guess?"

"No problem, man," he yawns again, and lets go of Junho. "Minjun called, he's on his way to wish you a happy birthday. He's bringing cupcakes and breakfast."

Junho smiles a bit. "Thanks. You should get some coffee, though. Chansung's making some."

"Oh, _Chansung_ ," Wooyoung sighs and pats Junho's shoulder while walking past him. "Good man, that one."

Junho doesn't answer, but his smile widens anyways.

  
  


They have breakfast in the living room, Nichkhun, Junho and Wooyoung squeezed in the couch with Minjun leaning his back against Nichkhun's calves, Taecyeon on the floor next to the coffee table, and Chansung in the love-seat.

Nichkhun reaches over to pat Junho's tummy when they're done singing _happy birthday_ and after Junho's blown the candles on a chocolate cupcake, "Happy birthday, man," he repeats, smile wide.

Then Minjun's kissing his cheek with a "You're an old fucker, Lee, well done," and Taecyeon chuckles, says, "You're one to talk, I swear to god," and wishes Junho happy birthday too.

Junho smiles at the cupcake, mumbles thanks, and goes back to his coffee, bitter and sweet and warm.

When they start talking about the show they're watching on TV and Junho picks on the conversation as well, Taecyeon smiles, Minjun just stares until Junho flinches, and Wooyoung and Nichkhun drop their heads on each of Junho's shoulders. Chansung smiles a little, too, and Junho tries not to choke, not to run off mumbling a hasty apology so he can hide and _breathe_ , he just sits there, and breathes them in instead.

  


 

Junho is tidying up his room (actually, he gave up on it fifteen minutes ago, now he's just shoving everything into the closet to deal with later) when Minjun peeks into the room, face bright with a shit-eating grin that Junho tries really hard not to find so _familiar_.

"We're going to Coney Island," he announces, and waves at Taecyeon when he walks down the hall rubbing his hands together and grinning like he's up to no good.

There's a heavy pause there (in which Junho contemplates whether he's still asleep, like— dreams within dreams, shit like that happens all the time— like, _Inception_ , oh god, he's been _incepted_ , yeah, there's no other explanation— or maybe the not-drinking is fucking up with his brain, also a possibility, he still has trouble believing he had the balls to talk to Chansung after that night's fiasco). Minjun stands at the threshold of Junho's door and Junho is still holding a pair of faded blue jeans mid-air and on its way to a growing pile of clothes.

Junho stares at him, at Minjun, and is about to open his mouth when a whole sixty seconds go by without a peep from either of them, when there's a loud thump and Chansung's voice from the room at the end of the hall, yelling, " _Taecyeon, I will fucking murder you I swear to fucking god— get the hell off me, what the fuck_."

 _Well, shit_ , Junho thinks, and drops the jeans he'd been holding. He stands there, close to his closet, and doesn't move.

"Happy birthday, Junho," Minjun sing-songs, like he hasn't done so already thrice. Once at breakfast, once when Junho stepped out of the shower, and once when Junho'd been trying to remember how the washing machine works. "We're going to do touristy stuff to celebrate your birthday, so you're coming with us, obviously."

"What?" Junho asks. more like, croaks. His throat has dried up.

Minjun walks closer to Junho's bed and sits at the edge. Up close, there are bags under his eyes, and Junho has a sharp, quick moment of clarity that allows him to wonder whether that's his fault. He's heard (more like, seen) Minjun and Nichkhun talking in low voices and casting careful glances his way, but they've never said anything— and that's probably been Junho's fault, actually; Junho doesn't talk unless he _has_ to and they only talk to fill up the silence in between them.

Well, now on top of feeling like his body is going numb, he feels guilt draping all over him. Just great, really, another day in his life.

"We should go out, is all I'm saying," Minjun says, voice quiet and placating. He picks at the duvet with his fingers, almost unconsciously if it weren't for the way his forefinger is moving in loops over the fabric, and Junho— among other random stuff— remembers it being a nervous tick of Minjun's whenever he wanted to put words into a song and couldn't.

Junho got like that sometimes, too, like his fingers knew what to do but didn't know how.

"Right," Junho says, voice small, propping himself up on his elbows.

This is the closest they've been in the past weeks, Junho thinks, still groggy. This is the first conversation they've actually held that doesn't involve food or movies selections. And, fuck, it might not even be a conversation per se, with how Junho seems to only know how to answer in monosyllables, but it's something, right?

"I should get dressed, then," he says, and sits up on the bed.

Minjun's smile is small. "I'll leave you to it, then. Gotta help Taec survive Chansung's wrath."

He reaches out and pats Junho's shoulder, smile etching to the side as he stands up and walks over to the door. Junho sighs loudly and runs a hand through his hair. Okay, he can do this. He can totally go out into the world and, like, act human.

Minjun rattles the door's frame with his knuckles, startling Junho, and when he looks up, Minjun nods at the night-stand, his expression carefully blank as he says, "If you're not gonna drink it," his voice wavers slightly, but Junho catches it, how the consonants are tight and punctuated while his vowels grow deep, "You should cap it."

Junho gazes at the bottle of whiskey that's been there for exactly nine days and then back at Minjun. "Not gonna drink it," he says, and maybe Minjun gets it or maybe he doesn't, but Junho looks away before finding out. He clears his throat, and walks towards the bathroom without looking back.

When he closes the bathroom's door behind him, his hands are shaking but only slightly.

  
  


Junho's car isn't the one waiting for him at the parking lot. It's a van, the kind they used to have back in the day, and it's white with its windows tinted a dark gray and Junho doesn't want to get in. He announces as much, ignores Nichkhun's pleas and puppy eyes and—

"Shut up and get in the car or I swear to god I'll call Minhye and it ain't going to be pretty."

Taecyeon gasps from the driver's seat, "You're despicable, Kim Minjun."

"Works with the ladies," Minjun shrugs, and he's grinning. He pats Junho's shoulder, "Just get in, yeah? The harder you fight, it the worse it'll get."

Junho presses his lips together and gets in after Minjun does, sits next to Wooyoung and behind Chansung (who's sprawled over a bench all by himself) and wills the vertigo away. The thing is Junho might have underestimated the whole 'I can handle this whole no-more-drinking' thing because it's like his head is going to burst and his skin is pulled too tight around his bones and it'll snap any given moment now, like a guitar string would. He bites on the inside of his cheek and focuses on the pain, on the swell of flesh between his teeth and the faint numbing spreading around it.

Five minutes into the ride, Chansung turns to look at him, his arm curled over the top of the seat, and Junho wouldn't have noticed had he not been already staring at the back of his neck as he sat up.

Chansung says, quiet, "This whole Coney Island thing was Minjun's idea." He continues, scrunching up his nose, "In case you're, say, thinking of pushing someone off the roller-coaster. It should be him."

Junho focuses on their surroundings, on Wooyoung with his head tipped back against the seat and outright sleeping and maybe even drooling a little, on Nichkhun and Taecyeon singing loudly along the radio and on Minjun speaking in Japanese over the phone, and it's just the two of them again, like that first time _eons_ ago, and it makes Junho's heart thump hard enough to blur the edges of his vision.

He chuckles, strained, around the bit of cheek he's still biting. "I'll keep that in mind."

One of the corners of Chansung's mouth quirks up. "Are you okay? I mean— With this? You okay?"

Junho smiles, or at least tries to. If Chansung could take a look at the insides of Junho's head, he'd realize that's the one question Junho hasn't been able to answer since he was sixteen. And, absurdly enough, it's the only question everyone asks, all the damned time.

"Yeah," he sighs, and at Chansung's still careful expression, adds, "I'm just. I'm tired, is all."

Chansung snorts, opens his mouth, almost reluctantly, and asks, "Of what?"

It doesn't come out spiteful, though, he sounds like the old Chansung who enjoyed a good row of banter while driving around to get to photo-shoots or rehearsals. Like he's honestly curious of what Junho is tired of.

If Junho weren't still so fucking gone for him, he'd laugh. But he is tired and his head is a mess and nothing makes sense beyond the realization that, fuck, yeah, Junho is as hopelessly in love as he was before. Instead, he shakes his head, sighs, and looks out the window.

So they talk now, apparently. Whatever happened the other day in the living room— whatever they admitted and whatever they didn't— and the small conversation they had in the morning has made walls crumble down between them, but whether it's for good or bad, Junho doesn't know yet.

And the worst part (or the best, maybe, he'll get back to you on that one) is he's sober to deal with it.

When Junho returns his gaze to Chansung and away from the window, Chansung is still angled at him, his arm hanging over the seat and his chin on the crook of his elbow. He's looking out the window, too, at the city and its streets blurred in gray around the edges.

"I'm tired of everything," he says, shrugging a shoulder. "The fighting, the pretending, the avoiding. I'm just so tired of everything."

Chansung doesn't reply, but his eyes are bright when he goes back to look at the city outside their car.

  
  


"We're going on the roller coaster," Junho deadpans. Wooyoung chuckles next to him, and Junho wants to punch him. He could even get away with it, it's _his_ birthday. "Of _course_ we're going on the roller coaster, why else would we be here for, right?"

They've tried every attraction twice but this. Junho supposes Minjun was saving the best for last.

Wooyoung laughs at that. "Minjun will call your sister, man."

"Yeah, let's hope it doesn't get to that, please, she's scary," Chansung mutters.

Junho pointedly keeps his mouth shut and doesn't ask Chansung how the hell would he know, and when Minjun comes back with their tickets, they just follow towards the line of people already waiting to get on the next ride. Junho looks around for a bit, expects someone to recognize them, but people are more concerned about their candy cones (how can they even be eating before getting on the roller coaster is beyond Junho) and no one spares them a second glance after Taecyeon has stopped goofing around with Nichkhun about god knows what.

So they make the line, Junho still worrying at the inside of his cheek, and at this point he can almost feel the coppery taste of blood, but if he stops he might go off his mind. Wooyoung stands next to him the whole time, a warm and constant line along his side and when they move forward, their elbows knock together, Junho jumping a bit off his skin because he's _never_ liked roller coasters and the closer they get the more he craves for the burn of alcohol down his throat.

"Hey," Wooyoung starts, slow and quiet, touching Junho's shoulder, "hey, are you okay?"

Junho nods, stiff. "Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry."

"You don't look okay, though," Nichkhun is peering at him, shoving up into Junho's space a bit too intensely, and Junho wishes he didn't do that considering he's a light touch away from a nervous breakdown. Distantly, Junho admits it's rather pathetic, he's almost thirsty and he still can't deal with shit like a grown up.

And here he was thinking the day would be great, that he'd accomplished so much by five am.

"I'm fine," he repeats, and catches Chansung's eyes, worried and confused and Junho absolutely hates how his life tips off every edge possible without so much as a warning, hates how everything seems to go well and then wrong and yet right again.

He breathes in deeply, closes his eyes for a bit as he ducks his head and hides his face from view. "Fuck, I'm too sober for this," he mumbles, and Wooyoung chuckles, blithe and breathy.

Taecyeon comes to his other side, then, but not close enough to touch. "I hate roller coasters," he says, and Junho looks up at him with a frown. "If it helps any, I mean."

It does, Junho supposes. "Minjun looks so eager, though," he says, by a way of explanation, which should be translated into _That's the only reason why I'm doing this. That and because I really don't want him to call my sister_.

Taecyeon nods and scuffs the toe of his shoe on the gravel. "You know you don't have to do stuff to please the rest of the world, don't you?"

It strikes Junho almost across the face, missing only by the few inches of _I'm-sorry_ s shining off Taecyeon's eyes. And truth be told, Junho doesn't _know_ if that's a thing he knows (oh god he probably needs to sit down), but the way Taecyeon says it, so earnestly, so to the point, it reminds Junho of back then, back when they would all sit at the living room of their tiny, cramped apartment to talk about their fears and dreams.

Junho just watches him quietly, catches the way his eyes crinkle when Taecyeon looks up at the dreary sky, and wonders if maybe he has army stories as well, if he's had it rough out there, if the way his eyes shine brighter and deeper means something other than age.

"I gotta do this," he says instead, and at Taecyeon's tug of lips, he knows they've probably been talking about the same thing all along, because Taecyeon isn't stupid and he's the only one that pointed out they haven't bought any booze this week after they had breakfast.

"Yeah, man," he says, looking smug and proud, because he might not be stupid, but he's still _Taecyeon_ , "you gotta."

  
  


If he survives this, Junho is going to kill them. With his bare hands.

He clenches his fist tight around the bar on top of his lap, pushes his ass deep into the seat and prays he can become one with it, does it in his mind because if he opens his mouth he's going to throw up. They're all screaming around him, and Junho wants to slap them, wants to literally push them off their seats, but doing that would mean he has to let go of the safety bar and he's in no way whatsoever going to do that.

It doesn't help that, somewhere in the chaos of getting on, Chansung had ended up sitting next to him.

Junho is definitely going to kill them. He's going to rot away in jail for murder rather than at home from a broken liver, and if one looks close into it, it's actually ten times better.

Chansung screams at one point, shouts loud and long and happy, his whole face laughing when Junho dares to look at him through the corner of his eye. When the ride slows down on its way to the top of a curve, Chansung nudges him, mouths, "Just let go," or maybe he actually voices it, but Junho can't hear a thing over the rush of blood in his ears and the thumping of his heart at the back of his throat.

So he just shakes his head, braces himself for the swoop of the fall, and shuts his eyes tightly, holding on for dear life, and when they ricochet to the side, he nudges closer into Chansung and it's all so wrong and yet so right, Junho wants out, out, off, but the ride goes on, faster and higher until he doesn’t know where is top and where is bottom.

When he opens his eyes and the air is no longer slapping at his face and only gently kissing it, Chansung's hand is clasped tightly in his, their fingers twined together, and he doesn't say anything until Junho himself draws his fingers away, numb and clammy and warm.

They look at each other briefly, and it's like a punch in the gut, both wheezing out, though it's probably the adrenaline doing its trick. Junho doesn't know, doesn't care, they just sit there until they're cleared to go, their arms still touching, skin burning tight and hot even through four layers of fabric separating them.

 _Even the puking bits_ , his brain helpfully supplies.

  


 

By six pm, they grow hungry. Junho's not sure he can stomach food right now but when Nichkhun mentions hot-dogs, he must admit his mouth waters slightly. They find a bench and manage to sit four out of the six of them, which means Chansung and Taecyeon are the only ones on their feet.

"You should go get our hot dogs," Minjun says, smiling cheekily at them both.

"Why us?" Taecyeon frowns, but agrees anyways, heading towards the stand a solid fifty feet away, calling Chansung over his shoulder.

Junho, sitting in between Minjun and Nichkhun, only shifts slightly when Chansung looks at him in the eye and then blinks away quickly, dragging his feet behind Taecyeon. It's only after they're out of hearing distance that Minjun turns around, as much as he can on the bench, and fixes Junho with a careful gaze.

Junho is probably not going to like this. He can catch Wooyoung making abortive gestures at the other end of the bench through the corner of his eye.

"So," Minjun starts, "what is it with you and Chansung, huh?"

Junho freezes, Nichkhun mutters under his breath in quick Thai, and Wooyoung whines, " _Hyung_ ," with exasperation.

"No," Minjun amends quickly, his hands shot up to maybe try and appease Junho, "I'm just— Like, I'm honestly just asking. Because, I mean, he was going to be sitting with me for the ride but then Wooyoung starts talking about shit I barely understand, he pushes me away— rude, by the way— and I end up sitting with a very large lady who pretends not to get a hold of the safety bar and gropes me, instead." He raises his eyebrows, "I think I deserve an explanation, don't you."

Nichkhun slouches heavily into Junho's side. "They're just working on some stuff."

"I— we have a bit of history," Junho says slowly, his heart rate spiking, and he wishes he'd gone with Taecyeon instead. He very pointedly keeps his eyes on the floor and refuses to look up. "From back when, I mean."

"Ah," Minjun nods, "are you working on the sexual part of your history or—"

"Oh my god," Junho mutters.

" _Hyung_ ," Wooyoung wails.

"Oh, come _on_ ," Nichkhun grits. "This, Minjun, this is why we stopped hanging out with you—"

"I'm just asking, you bitch," Minjun defends himself, and crosses both arms over his chest, and if Junho weren't feeling so tense, he'd actually smile a little at this.

He hunches on himself, though, arms wound tight around his middle. "It's a bit of everything," he says, and thanks all heavens when Minjun just nods again, his eyes still careful and guarded but warm on top of everything, because that's the kind of friend he is.

That's when Taecyeon and Chansung come back, each carrying three hot-dogs, and it's hilarious, really. When Chansung hands one out to Junho and their fingers brush, it's like Junho's back on the roller coaster and he's being swung at a curve, his stomach jumping all the way to the back of his throat.

It's not awful, though. Junho actually can breathe better this time round.

 

-

 

Junho decides to break it to them when Taecyeon is a couple hours away from flying back to Seoul for his mom's birthday and they're making plans for Chansung's birthday (which, Junho admittedly had been hoping would not happen, like, _near_ him, because he doesn't think himself ready for another trip to Coney Island).

Wooyoung has just pointed out that even if it's only a week away, it wouldn't hurt to start on the details, and everyone groans, Chansung the most, because he's a control freak, that's what Wooyoung is.

They're having lunch at the table for once, and he puts his sticks down as Minjun tells Taecyeon to send their hellos to his family, and it must be somewhere in between Wooyoung reaching out to pat Taecyeon in the back and Chansung speaking through a mouthful of food, "We'll save you some cake, though I can't promise it'll be edible when you get back here," that he thinks they probably _deserve_ to know.

"You guys, I—" he starts, and five pair of eyes land on him, even Chansung's, and fuck, scary. "I wanted to tell you something— something important."

They look at him expectantly, like they're holding their breath, and it reminds Junho of that one time they were having dinner, all six of them, back when Chansung had started dating and he'd fidgeted through the whole meal and then he'd opened with that same line, "I want to tell you something important," and Junho had feared for the absolute worst, had even pictured the news inside his head, "2pm's youngest to father a child."

It'd been almost like getting punched in the gut with a dozen bricks and he'd been lucky no one noticed how he dug his fingers on his thighs and held his breath through the nausea that had coiled at the back of his throat.

Chansung had eventually spared them enough suffering, and he'd smiled quietly, said the producing team had asked him to put lyrics to a song and that he'd finished that same night and he wanted them to hear it first.

Junho looks at them, at their expectant— but most of all, encouraging— gazes, and swallows thickly, wets his lips before continuing, "I realized I had a problem and I— Well, I decided to do something about it. I'm not, like, trying to make it a big deal, okay? I just— I needed you guys to know about it."

Silence falls upon them after that and Junho's heart is thumping in his ears, his hands shaking where they hover next to his plate of stir-fried chicken. He can feel them exchanging looks but this time it doesn't make him feel left out, it's actually the closest he's felt to them in the past month.

There's a sigh coming from where Minjun is sitting, and then his voice, "Hey, whose turn is it to wash the dishes today? I ain't it, bitches," because that's the kind of friend he is.

Loud bickering erupts next, and Junho isn't sure how it happens but he ends up on dishes duty along with Wooyoung. He laughs at Taecyeon when he ducks his head after Wooyoung throws an asparagus at him since Taecyeon's cleared of any chores for the day, and it feels nice, like, Junho wouldn't mind if it happened more often.

They finish lunch like that, laughing and making jokes and Junho just _watches_ , amazed, at how they've fallen back into their old routine even after all these years, and it's like Minjae or Jooseob could walk in any second now and tell them to pick their lazy asses up for a photo-shoot in less than an hour.

Junho's glad that doesn't happen, though— that way he gets to watch Nichkhun throw peas at Chansung and gets to smile when Chansung catches them with his mouth.

  


 

Just before he has to be at the airport ("You can't just leave me to go by myself, what happened to friendship and brotherhood, you fuckers,") Taecyeon asks Chansung whether he can help out with his bags, and Nichkhun jumps in to give them a hand. Minjun flat out refuses to do shit since he's driving Taecyeon to the airport so no one really expects him to jump into anything, and instead just nod at him when he says he'll wait in the car.

Junho's elbows deep in soapy water with Wooyoung next to him just being useless, and for a while the only sound filling the air is Nichkhun and Taecyeon laughing and Chansung complaining about something Junho doesn't really catch. A few minutes later Taecyeon comes into the kitchen and sighs loudly,

"Okay, kiddos, I must bid you farewell." He hugs Wooyoung one armed and punches Junho's shoulder, and it's a bit like in the old days, feels nice, and Junho smiles at him, shaking his head. "You guys should, like, meet me up in Seoul soon. Unless you're, like, planning on staying here."

"Maybe, yeah, it'd be nice to visit the fam for a while," Junho says, Wooyoung nodding along. "Doors are always open, though, in case you should decide to come by."

"I'll keep that mind," Taecyeon grins. "Take care, then," he ruffles Wooyoung's hair, and to Junho, he says, "We're all really proud of you, you know that, right?"

"Have a safe flight," Junho says quietly, and watches as Taecyeon walks out of the kitchen and then off to the door.

"Don't join any clubs!" Wooyoung hollers, and Taecyeon's laughter carries all the way from the door, even as he closes it behind him.

Junho smiles and turns back to the dishes waiting for him, and they work in silence for a while. Back in their days, doing the dishes wasn't that bad because not six of them sat down to eat at the same time, but now it feels different and almost like they've got all the time in the world, even if Taecyeon's gone and Chansung and him are still tiptoeing around each other.

He's about to ask Wooyoung if he's done drying the ones already clean when Wooyoung opens his mouth,

"Junho—" he starts, and even though his voice sounds clipped, he's smiling this quiet, little thing. "So are you, like, are you gonna get help?"

Junho shakes his head, choosing his next words carefully. "You see, that's the thing. I think I just needed a good reason, you know." He sighs and adds, "I've been doing a lot of thinking, being holed up in my room like I've been these past few weeks." He tries an apologetic smile but Wooyoung's face is open and caring and it helps, a little, that Junho feels like he doesn't have to apologize for this even though he should. "You guys being here has reminded me a lot of... A lot of back then. The good stuff, you know? And it's not just you guys— My family, too. Minhye, my mom— heck, even my dad— they deserve better than what I've been."

He grabs another plate, and it's like the floodgates have been opened; suddenly all Junho wants is to get it all _out_ . "Khun told me, the other day. That Chansung has been blaming himself for how things turned out and that's—" he huffs, shaking his head. He doesn't say _I cried myself to sleep that night because I felt fucking guilty, and I can't even imagine how he's been feeling like that and it's been years for him_. That part is not for Wooyoung to know. "Many of my bad decisions did come out of what we had, you know? But it doesn't mean it was on him. That, most of all, is what actually hurts like fuck, and, y'know, not just because I still—" He sighs, eyes stingy. "I've come to terms with it, though— the drinking? Like I said, I needed a reason."

He looks down at the plate he's holding, its shiny and soapy surface reflecting the yellow light above their heads. "And you're, like— Damn, you're a bunch of assholes, but. But you reminded me of all the reasons I needed to make it stop. And I know I haven't said it so far but I'm glad you're here— really glad."

"We're glad to be here, too," Wooyoung says quietly. "We're glad you're getting better. We love you, you know." He says the last part with a bit of a long-suffering sigh, and Junho laughs, throwing some suds at him.

"I love you guys, too," Junho says ruefully. "Lord knows why, though, you're annoying."

They wash some more dishes— truth is they've been piled up for three days and all six of them are pigs, that's the truth— quietly until Wooyoung nudges their elbows together and says, "We're also glad you and Chansung are fixing things up."

Wooyoung isn't looking at him, though, and Junho finds him looking at something in the general direction of the door. When Junho turns around to see what it is, Chansung's standing there, eyes soft around the edges but open wide as he holds Junho's gaze. Junho's stomach turns into jelly, one of his hands still shoved deep into the sink.

"I need to— I need to talk to you," Chansung says, and he steps closer, his eyes never leaving Junho's.

Wooyoung clears his throat. "So, I'm gonna go…" he starts to back away slowly, "watch the weather. Hey, Khun," he hollers, and hastily makes his way out of the kitchen, "Khun, get your fucking coat, we're gonna go watch the New York weather— No, I don't care you're cold, get the fuck up."

Chansung closes the distance between them as Wooyoung and Nichkhun close the door behind them, and at this point Junho has sort of already stopped breathing, what with Chansung standing less than a foot away. Junho tilts his body to the side as he reaches for the drying cloth perched next to the sink and dries his hands with it, taking his time at it to cover the way they're shaking. His fingers are pruny and the little wrinkles are fucking fascinating.

"I'm really proud of you, you know," Chansung breathes. It's a quiet thing, almost like a secret.

"Thank you," Junho replies, and falls short, doesn't know what else to say, because what do you even say to that, coming from your ex, who you still sort of still have feelings for and in between the rubble of the remains of what you once were?

"Did you mean that?" Chansung asks, voice barely above a whisper. "What you said? Did you mean it? About us?"

Junho's instinctual response, trapped between his teeth because he knows better by now, is _I say a lot of fucking shit, Chansung, you're gonna have to be a tad more specific_ . Instead, he turns back to face him, all of him, but keeps his eyes fixed somewhere near his left shoulder, breathing slowly through his nose as he nods. "Yeah, I did." He goes on, before he can talk himself out of it, because if anything, he owes this to Chansung more than to anybody else, "Listen, Nichkhun told me something the other day and he— he was right. I don't have to do it _for_ you, it has to be for me. And I think right now I'm at at that good place where I'm doing it _for_ me _thanks to_ you. D'you get it?"

"Yeah, I think I do." Chansung nods and Junho clears his throat, hoping that's the end of it, but Chansung takes half a step closer, and Junho's breath catches in his throat. "Is that why you're glad we're here?"

"That and other things," Junho croaks, and dares to look up at Chansung. "I think I've eaten more in the past month than I did in the past year."

"Is that it?" Chansung's eyes are wide and expectant, and they're shining under the yellow lights.

"Well, I—" Junho falters.

Having Chansung so close is achingly difficult, and he's caught in between reaching out for him, and reaching back to steady himself on the counter. Part of him thinks Chansung's only pushing at his buttons, and that's just fucked up because there's no need to crowd Junho like this— against the counter and making the back of his shirt wet with the soapy water that's slipped around the edge of the sink. Then again, Junho's not sure what _this_ is in the first place— can't seem to know what anything is especially when Chansung's involved— and he can't just _guess_ . He doesn't know just _what_ to expect, or if he should even be expecting something.

He clears his throat again, holds Chansung's gaze. "It was nice seeing you lot again."

"Including me?" it might be the lights, but Chansung's lips quirk up.

And something happens then, in Chansung's eyes, and Junho's breath catches for the second time in less than ten minutes. It's nothing cliche, no, thank god, because there's nothing cliche about them: Junho doesn't see his reflection in there or the feelings they both've been trying so hard and refusing to acknowledge for so many years finally breaking past the thick surface.

Junho sees _him_ , sees lanky, goofy-smiled Chansung with scared eyes and afraid of the whole world— and he sees Chansung, grown-up Chansung, with stories about the army and heartfelt apologies under the rain, and yeah, okay, he can see _everything_ they've been trying not to admit out loud, and this is _it_ , fuck, Junho knows it and Chansung does as well and it's fucking perfect because they _know_.

"Yeah, including you, especially you, I think." Junho nods, and Chansung full-out grins, eyes crinkling and teeth showing and it's just— it's a sight.

"You've no idea how long I've been waiting to hear you say that, do you?" Chansung asks, and he tentatively cups Junho's jaw, his hands warm and trembling slightly, and it's like Junho's going to burst, his skin pulling at the seams.

He holds up both his hands, placating. "In my defense, I thought you were over it," he says. "You never said anything— Or, like, stopped saying anything _at all_ , and I don't blame you for it— But like, I thought you'd moved on." He shrugs, "I wouldn't have blamed you if you had."

"I'm sure I told you once or twice thinking wasn't your best feature." Chansung leans in so their foreheads are resting together, and he chuckles, a deep rumble that goes all the way to his fingertips, pressed into Junho's jaw and neck.

"Trying to have a serious conversation here, man. Don't screw it." Junho tries to sound upset but it lacks heat— he's heaving for air, even as he lets his hands curl over Chansung's wrists and just hold them there, pressed close to each other under the yellow kitchen lights.

Chansung's shaking with silent laughter rising from the very pit of his stomach, Junho can feel it spreading, reaching the top of his cheeks and making them pinker, his fingertips warmer. "Not sorry," Chansung says, and he really doesn't sound apologetic, what with the teasing grin and eyes full of mirth.

"Hate you," Junho sighs.  

"No, you don't," Chansung whispers.

"No, I don't," Junho shakes his head.

"I love you, you know," Chansung sighs, and Junho decides to kiss him in response.

It's still pretty fucking stupid how Junho's mouth remembers how to fit against Chansung's, even now, even after all these years, after everything. He's sweet still, his hands frame Junho's face as he presses closer, Junho's fingers tightening around his forearms to keep him there— _here_. It's nothing heavy, it's not like any kiss they've had; and it must say something, how Junho can remember, in this instant, each and every one of the kisses they've shared, playing at the back of his eyes on loop and full color.

It's a sweet kiss, mostly, and Chansung's thumbs stroke at his cheeks as he pulls away slightly to nip on Junho's lower lip— and then he's leaning back in, chasing Junho's gasp with the tip of his tongue across the roof of his mouth.

It's nothing like before, it's familiar and yet completely foreign, like Junho's trying to rediscover what it feels like to kiss like this and Chansung's taking the slow, lazy drags of his lips like a learning experience, like he's trying to remember if it felt like this back then. Junho knows it didn't, this is new, this is redefining the ground they stand on, redefining themselves. Like learning by touch, Junho presses his fingertips gently over Chansung's jaw, Chansung's dragging over the back of his neck and the end of his hair, and it's warm, everything is so warm and delightful and Junho wishes he didn't have to breathe so they could go on like this forever, always.

When Chansung pulls away, smile so wide it's like his cheeks are about to break, his eyes teary, his hair is a mess, windblown almost, and Junho wonders if he ever got his hands on it because he can't really remember.

He figures it doesn't make much of a difference.

  
  


("They were making out in the kitchen," Nichkhun says loudly, and Junho groans. "There's nothing sacred anymore— No, we didn't get pictures, but I'm sure we can get sex tapes later— Of course, man, sharing is caring. I'll tell Minjun to set up cameras everywhere."

"Fuck you, I ain't setting up shit for that giant piece of teeth," Minjun drawls from the couch. Junho likes him the best, it's been decided.

"Don't look at me," Wooyoung says when Junho pokes him in the back of the head. "I gave you time to take it to your room, not my fault you didn't _realize_ about it in time."

"I hate you," he groans, loud.

"No, you don't," Chansung says, and Junho punches his arm.)

 

-

 

 _This is it_ , he knows. this is calm and warm and quiet, Chansung's breathing the only other sound in the room, and Junho focuses on it, the worry and the fear and the _what-if_ s a quiet murmur at the back of his mind.

His skin is still pulled too tight, but it's bearable this time; the longer Chansung nuzzles at the back of his ear, the faster it spreads until it's only a low buzz, the faint echo of something Junho won't miss at all.

"Can you make it?" Chansung whispers in the middle of the night, the room dipped in pale red and his lips pressed to the top of Junho's spine. "Junho. Can you make it this time?"

"I can." Junho sighs, his lips tugging at the corners and his fingers fitting in between Chansung's like a puzzle. "I promise."


End file.
